Semper Liber
by sidlewild
Summary: A dying man’s final request sends a young woman to a new life at Badon Hill. TristanOC.
1. The Letter

**SEMPER LIBER**

Summary: A dying man's final request sends a young woman to a new life at Badon Hill. TristanOC.

Disclaimer & Author's Note: I like to think that Malory would have his legends of King Arthur belong to the ages, but I cannot lay claim to them nor to those responsible for the 2004 film by the same name. Thank you for reading, and enjoy!

Chapter 1: The Letter

_Dearest Artorius Castus,_

_For many years, I served under your father, Lucius__ Artorius. Your father was an honorable man, and I was released from my service to Rome by his good word some twenty-three years ago. I consider myself blessed to have survived longer in freedom here in Britain than in service to Rome. I have made a life for myself here in a Roman village two leagues south of the wall. I took a British wife who gave me a daughter and, in so doing, gave her life. I have raised my daughter the best I know how, according to the traditions of her people. Many in the village regard us with explicit distrust and, in some cases, violence. Some of the men, including many Roman officers, regard my illness as an opportunity to take my daughter as their own. Against my will, I gave the best years of my life to Rome, and I do not wish the same fate for my daughter. I have sent her with this letter, my only will, to you with my final request: that you protect my child as you would any woman in such a predicament. A young woman without family may be forced to accept a man she would not have __chosen__ otherwise. Do not allow her to be taken advantage of._

_Through her years, I have taught her as many of a man's skills, and she has taken up a woman's work on her own. In her mother's absence, she had learned to cook, clean, and mend clothing. Under my tutelage, she has learned the tasks of a stable boy, weapons care, and self-defense. She may defend herself, but her skills would not protect her at length against a man who would do her harm. I tell you this in order to assure you that she should not be your ward only, but that she may be of service to yourself and your knights. She is__ a smart and sensible girl, and__ as employable as any woman of her age and upbringing._

_I ask that you give my daughter shelter and gainful employment.__ She knows the sacrifice she must now make to ensure her__ life of __freedom, and has given her consent to my plan.__ Honor my final request, and render my years of service to Rome worthwhile. I beseech you: protect my Cariad, and give her life._

_Cura ut valeas,_

_Bedivere_


	2. Postmortem

**SEMPER LIBER**

Summary: A dying man's final request sends a young woman to a new life at Badon Hill. TristanOC.

Disclaimer & Author's Note: I like to think that Malory would have his legends of King Arthur belong to the ages, but I cannot lay claim to them nor to those responsible for the 2004 film by the same name. Thank you for reading, and enjoy!

Chapter 2: Postmortem

Cariad wrapped her hand around her father's battle-worn one, helping him press his seal into the soft blue wax. She peeled the stamp from her father's hand and set it on the table by his cot. She took the letter from his loose grasp and fingered its soft edges. "Abba," she said, pressing her hand to his cheek. "I will do as you ask, for it is you who knows me best." She smiled sadly. In the language he had taught her, she added, "_I love you_."

She rose, acutely attuned to the swish of her skirts against the floor and her father's quiet, labored breathing. She faced her future in the flickering light of a single candle. "_Find Arthur Castus_," he'd said, reverting to his native language as his mind faded. "_Deliver this letter to him, and only him. Do not compromise, and do not look back. Arthur is a fair man. Do as he bids you._" He'd paused, then said the words that broke her heart. "_Love freely_."

Cariad slid the letter into the folds of her dress, pressing her orders to her breast. She lifted her father's dagger from the table and twisted its point on her index finger, testing its weight and blade. She snuffed the candle with lightly callused fingertips. She lay down beside her father, her ear pressed to his chest. She listened to his shallow, fading breath and slept, her father's dagger clutched tightly in her hand.

-

The sun rose. Cariad laid her hand on her father's cheek, cold beneath the dark blanket of death. Tears stung her eyes and she turned away. Silently, she selected a near-frozen apple, a chunk of day-old bread, and a water skein. She tucked these items into a saddlebag with her spare dress and shift. She tied her wool cloak over her shoulders and pulled on a pair of work-hardened leather gloves.

The young black horse, her only companion now, stood tied to a post outside the cottage. He nickered at the sight of his mistress. She pressed her hand against his neck. He huffed softly at her hair and clothes, his eyes and nostrils widening slightly. "I know," she said to him. "It was his time."

She saddled and harnessed the horse with numb fingers. She slid his hackamore over his head and secured the leather slip knot beneath his chin. In the cottage, she gave her father a final kiss, then checked that the letter was safe at her breast. She hid the dagger at her waist and gathered her father's bow and dao. She tied the quiver and sheath to the horse's martingale, then buckled her saddlebags onto the back of the saddle. Finally, she slung the bow across her back. "Well," she said, scratching the horse's poll beneath the strap of the hackamore. "It's time to go, boy." The animal bumped her shoulder with his muzzle.

She swung into the saddle and turned the horse towards a cottage closer to the center of the village. She circled around to a window at the back of the cottage and waited. A moment later, the head and shoulders of boy not much younger than her appeared. Cariad dug a small purse of coins from her saddlebags and held it tightly in her hand. The boy eyed the money greedily.

"We have an agreement," she said evenly.

The boy nodded, glancing quickly behind his shoulder before leaning further out the window. "I'll bury him at the age of the wood," he said. He held out his hand.

"You will go now," she said. "You will have it done before anyone in the village notices, and you will not let any man, woman, or child desecrate his grave." The boy nodded eagerly, and Cariad dropped the purse into it. "If you do not do as I have asked, may the gods give you no peace."

The boy swallowed. "I will go now." He closed the window and disappeared into the recesses of the cottage.

Cariad turned her horse to the north, using the rising sun as her guide. She squeezed his sides gently and set off a steady walk across the valley towards the woods. Dead grass and weeds twisted together, frosted with the morning's dew. They had not gone across one quarter of the valley before she kicked at the horse's sides, urging him into a swift gallop. Leaning close to her horse's neck, Cariad allowed herself to believe that the sharp winter wind was the cause of her tears.

-

Tristan watched the storm forming from the battlements at Badon Hill. He cut a slice of apple with his pocket knife and pressed the fruit to his lips. The apples would not be good for much longer. Winter was coming. If the dark mass of clouds to the south was any indication, winter would be arriving sooner than Arthur had hoped. Perhaps the weather would press the woads back into the woods just north of Hadrian 's Wall. Tristan lifted another slice of apple to his mouth, chewing thoughtfully. Perhaps a thick fall of fresh snow would blanket Badon Hill in a period of relative peace. Tristan thought he might not mind a few days' respite.

"Tristan!" Percival climbed the narrow stairs leading to the battlements. "Good afternoon, cousin," he said, laying his hand on Tristan's shoulder. Percival breathed in deeply, his hand falling to his side. He raised his eyes to the darkening sky, to the red flags snapping in the icy wind. He smirked at his cousin. "Where's Rhian?"

Tristan stared blankly across the plain to the edge of the wood. "Don't call her that."

Percival grinned. "I must call her something," he insisted.

"Not that," Tristan said. He pressed his lips into a tight line.

"Then what would you have me call her?"

Tristan finished his apple and tucked his knife away. "You don't have to call her anything," he said wryly. "You have no reason to."

Percival turned, leaning against the wall that separated them from a three-story drop to the frozen ground. "And if I had to call her something?"

"Percival," Tristan said, gazing out across the fields. "You need to take up a new game."

Percival laughed. "What do you call her?"

Tristan whistled sharply, eyeing his cousin with mock distain. "I don't know her name and neither do you. I am not likely to know it tomorrow, either, so you might want to arrange for alternate entertainment tomorrow afternoon."

"And they say you can speak with the animals," Percival said dryly.

"To them. Not with them." Tristan narrowed his eyes. He nodded his head towards the edge of the wood. "Do you see that?" he asked.

Percival turned and searched the border of the valley. "A rider." He raised an eyebrow and smirked at Tristan. "This afternoon's entertainment, perhaps?" At his cousin's silence, Percival returned his attention to the rider. Out of the darkening sky, Tristan's hawk appeared, circling loosely above the approaching strangers. "Hm. Seems Rhian has brought you something."

Tristan whistled again. The hawk straightened its orbit and dove towards the battlements. She landed neatly on the wall beside Percival and looked at him curiously. Tristan turned to his fellow knight in annoyance. "Have you been feeding her again?"

Percival fingered a piece of dried meat tucked deep in his pocket. "Of course not." The bird screeched.

"You may as well give it to her," Tristan sighed.

Percival did so with an impish smile. "Come then," he said, turning swiftly on his heel. "Let's see what she's brought us."

Tristan bit his tongue and followed his cousin down the steps to the courtyard below, the hawk digging her talons into his forearm. "Hey, hey," he said to her. He pressed two fingers against the bird's breast, urging her to perch on his fingers instead of clawing at his skin. He touched her crown affectionately. "That's better, eh?"

-

Gawain bent his head over his axe, sharpening the blade with long, careful strokes. The arrival of a horse and rider sounded in the courtyard, followed shortly by the firm, proud tones of an argument. Gawain stood slowly and set aside his axe and whetstone. He laid a hand on the stable door, surveying the scene. A young woman in a wool cloak stood beside a dark horse, both strangers visibly weary. A pair of Roman guards barred their path to the stables, trapping them in the courtyard.

"I have been sent to deliver a letter to Arthur Castus," said the young woman said evenly.

One of the Roman soldiers laughed. "Arthur need not be bothered by your request. You will give the letter to me," he said, holding out his hand expectantly.

The young woman pressed her hand to her breast. "I will not," she said. "I was ordered to deliver it into his hand." She stared boldly into the eyes of the man before her. "You may tell me where he is and take me to him, or you may direct me to someone who will."

The second guard frowned, his mouth digging a deep crease into his face. "Who are you to make such demands?"

Gawain lifted his head as Percival and Tristan descended the stairs from the battlements, their boots sounding on the stones behind and slightly to the left of the young woman. Her head turned almost imperceptibly towards the sound and her hand flew to her waist. Gawain frowned and stepped forward, reaching his hand towards the guards in a gesture of peace. "Wait," he said, too late.

The first guard grabbed the girl's arm, drawing her hand away from her waist. A dagger no longer than Gawain's hand gleamed dully in her hand. She reacted immediately, twisting her arm in a futile attempt to loosen the guard's hold. The dark horse startled and backed away with an alarmed snort. "Wait!" Gawain repeated, wrapping his hand firmly around the Roman soldier's wrist. He glanced at the guard, then the young woman. "Drop it," he said, his voice resonating with dangerous authority.

The young woman flinched when Tristan's hawk screeched and launched herself into the air, out of the tension electrifying the narrow courtyard. Her hand shook, her fingers white around the dagger. Gawain sought her gaze and was rewarded. She looked at him, her eyes wide and shining with what Gawain suspected to be the onset of tears. She blinked, and the tears were gone.

"Drop it," he repeated.

The young woman pursed her lips and huffed a frustrated breath. She searched Gawain's face openly. At last, her lips parted and she spoke to him. "_I mean no harm._"

Gawain vaguely registered Percival's sharp intake of breath and Tristan's rapidly approaching footsteps. He loosened his fingers slightly. "_Drop it_," he said a third time, curiosity replacing the forcefulness in his voice.

She stared him in the eye, unabashed but visibly relieved, and she let loose her weapon.


	3. Succor

**SEMPER LIBER**

Summary: A dying man's final request sends a young woman to a new life at Badon Hill. TristanOC.

Disclaimer & Author's Note: I like to think that Malory would have his legends of King Arthur belong to the ages, but I cannot lay claim to them nor to those responsible for the 2004 film by the same name. Thank you for reading, and enjoy! (Succor is one of tenants to which Arthur held his knights, according to Malory. It means, roughly, "to give aid.")

Chapter 3: Succor

Tristan bent to the ground to retrieve the fallen dagger. It was not often that he was caught unawares, but the sound of a new voice, a female voice, wrapped around the words of his homeland had drawn him out of the calm with which he generally carried himself. He studied the dagger in his palm, its hilt carved with characters at once foreign and familiar.

Gawain raised his voice over the quiet spring of Tristan's musings. "Let her go," he said to the Roman guard. The guard shoved the young woman's hand away forcefully. Tristan caught a glimpse of raw, red flesh at the girl's wrist and growled quietly at the guard.

As Gawain dismissed the Roman soldiers, Tristan turned the dagger over in his hand. He held it out to the girl, hilt first. "Take it," he said gruffly. She took the weapon from his hand with a careful nod of her head. After a moment, Tristan motioned towards the blade. "Put it away."

The young woman expelled an even breath and slid the dagger into a sheath hidden at her waist. Despite her obvious attempts to maintain her composure, her voice shook when she addressed Tristan. "Will you take me to Arthur?" she asked.

Tristan glanced up at Gawain. The blond knight nodded in silent agreement. "I'll see to the horse," Gawain said. He gathered the young horse's reins and pressed his broad hand against the animal's dark face. "Hey, hey," he said quietly to the tired stallion. The horse sighed deeply and leaned into Gawain's palm.

"I call him Ryn," the young woman said, her voice soft and tired.

Gawain smiled. "And what does he call you?"

The girl raised her eyebrow slightly. "I like to think that he'd call me Cariad if he was able. I'm sure you have something you'd like me to call you," she said, her voice lilting at the end.

"Gawain." He nodded towards his companions. "Tristan. Percival." To the latter he said, "Come on, then. With me." Percival scowled, regarding Cariad and Tristan with poorly veiled jealousy. Gawain chuckled as he led the young horse away, calling Percival along with his hand. "You'll have your fun later, I'm quite sure."

Tristan pressed his hand gently to the small of her back. "Come," he said. "I will take you to Arthur."

-

Arthur's subconscious did its best to keep him from waking at last to the insistent knocking on his door but, as it had been since Arthur picked up his father's sword at the age of twelve, there was no keeping his mind behind closed doors. He cleared his throat and pressed closed the pot of ink airing on his desk. "Come in."

He rose as the door swung open slowly on its cold, aching hinges. The familiar face of his scout appeared. "Tristan. What news?"

Tristan nodded in greeting and drew Cariad through the narrow doorway. Having gathered her composure in the hall, she did not react to the surprised expression in Arthur's disturbing green eyes or the authority that seemed to course through his body like its lifeblood.

"You have a guest," Tristan said plainly. At Arthur's sharp glance, Tristan closed the door behind them and took up a place against the wall, head down and ears alert.

Arthur smiled gently. His visitor was weary, even dirty, but did not appear injured or aggrieved in any serious way, and for her sake and his own, he was pleased. He laid his hand on the chair he'd occupied moments before. "Please, sit. You look as though you could use a rest."

Cariad shook her head. "You are Arthur Castus?"

Arthur watched her, his face a study of stone. "I am. And your name, lady?"

"Cariad," she said, her voice wrapping firmly around the one thing she knew would not change, clinging to its plain honesty. "I have come from a village south of here to deliver a letter into your hand."

"It's author?" Arthur asked, watching as she pulled a fold of soft, worn paper from her cloak.

She pressed the paper between her fingers, unwilling, for a moment, to let it go. After her brief indulgence, she placed the letter in Arthur's outstretched hand. "My father," she said, raising her eyes to his. "He served under your father for many years."

"And now?" Arthur's mind darkened at the howling whisper of the words he knew would come from the girl's mouth.

"He died last night," Cariad said. From the corner, Tristan noted with no small interest that, of all the things that may have shaken her, these words did not.

Arthur offered his guest the chair once more, and once more she refused. "I have been sitting for a half a day, sir," she said. "Though if it makes you feel better, we might pretend that I am enjoying your chair thoroughly."

Tristan hid a snicker behind a cough. Cariad's words gave Arthur a moment's pause, and then he smiled. "As long as you are quite comfortable."

Arthur slid his thumb beneath the blue wax seal of the letter and unfolded the page. He read quickly and carefully, his thoughts hidden behind a worried frown. At last, he looked up from the letter which, though it had been so heavy for Cariad to bear, looked small and insignificant in his ink-stained hands. "You are aware of the contents of this letter?" he asked.

Cariad nodded. "I am. My father had neither the hand nor the letters. I transcribed his words faithfully."

"I have no doubt." Arthur looked back to the letter briefly. "Do you wish me to honor your father's request?" he asked gently. He hated to put the question to her now, when she was so obviously weary and, despite having found her target, temporarily lost. He laid the letter on his desk and lifted Cariad's chin with careful fingers. "You will not be a burden to me, whatever you choose."

Arthur's kind words stung at the back of her eyes. "I…" She paused, her tongue suddenly thick in her mouth. "My father assured me that you are a good man. I would have you do what's best for your men. For myself, I would be pleased to serve you."

Arthur nodded slowly, searching for a way to rephrase her words without offending her offer. He shook these thoughts away. "Welcome to Badon Hill," he said kindly. "Eat and sleep well tonight. We can speak at greater length tomorrow." He gestured to Tristan with an open palm. "Please show her to Lamorak's old room. I will send Jols to have it prepared."

-

"He's not such a nag once you get the dirt off him," Gawain said, brushing the dark horse's shoulder with firm, swift strokes. He laid his hand on the animal's neck. "Almost handsome, you are." Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Percival raise a long, slightly curved sword from a sheath tied to the saddle.

"This is a nice sword," Percival said, turning the blade in his hand. He held the base of the hilt in two fingers. The blade tipped slightly away from him before he caught it up again. "A little off balance." He shrugged. "Not a woman's weapon."

"Not yours either," Gawain snapped.

Percival laughed. "You and Tristan are always so worried about my behavior. I'm not as old as you. Forgive me if I have maintained my sense of humor."

"You've killed men of all ages," Tristan said, striding purposefully into the stable. He took the dao from his cousin and slid it forcefully into its sheath. "You're old enough, and old enough to know better."

Percival frowned for only a moment, chagrined, but he did not let his fellows see. He rolled his eyes. "So, what's the girl's story?" He made himself busy untying the saddlebags.

Gawain leaned over the stall door, the hard brush dangling from his hand. "What did Arthur say?"

"She's staying." Tristan shrugged.

"Who is she?" Percival insisted, his voice bright with prospect. It was rare that a new face came to the fort, and even rarer that that face was worth looking at.

"Ask her."

Percival tucked the saddlebags under his arms. "All right."

Tristan growled. "Not now." He took his cousin's burdens with the hands of a practiced thief. He gathered the sheathed sword and quiver. "The horse?" he said to Gawain.

"Tired, but in good health," the blond knight answered. The horse kicked viciously at the stall wall. Gawain grinned. "Although it's somewhat clear that he'd never been properly stabled in his life."

Tristan smirked at that, hiding the smile behind his braids. On that subject, he thought that maybe none of them ever had.

-

Cariad pressed her burning cheek to the window pane. The fire Jols had started dried the room, its heat stretching the tired corners of her eyes and mouth. She yawned, then traced her finger through the condensation that appeared on the glass. She did not hear the soft knock on her door, or the footsteps that followed.

"Lady."

Cariad spun away from the window. "Sir," she chirped. She ignored his amused expression and waited for her heart to slow in her chest. "I have not given you my name only to have you call me by that useless epithet." The words grated across her lips where she had expected them to pass through with a light sparkle of indignation. "I'm sorry."

Tristan nodded. "Cariad, then."

"Tristan." She eyed the bundles in his arms and reached forward to take the saddlebags from his hands. "Thank you." She settled the bags on the floor and reached for her father's weapons. Hers now.

Tristan held out the quiver but kept the dao to himself, studying the hilt carefully. "Your father's," he said, a musing rather than a question.

Cariad itched to snatch the sword from the stranger's fingers. She clenched her teeth in her mouth, her hands at her sides. "Yes," she said tightly.

Sensing he'd pushed her just far enough, Tristan relinquished the sword. "It's well cared for."

"Thank you," Cariad said shortly. She tucked the sword, bow, and quiver beneath the low bed. Still bent close to the ground, she laid her hand on the fresh linens. "How long?" she asked.

"Three weeks," Tristan said, watching her fingers twitch unconsciously over the material. "Woad arrow."

Cariad stared blankly at the bedclothes. "My horse…"

"Is fine," Tristan finished.

A log snapped on the hearth, and Cariad nearly went with it. She turned to Tristan. "I am sorry. You have been nothing but kind to me and I have been decidedly ungrateful." Her lips wobbled in an exhausted smile. She sat carefully on the edge of the bed. She raised her eyes to his, their gaze slipping slightly away to the dark marks on his cheekbones. "The Iagyzes are the only tribe to mark their people," she said softly.

Tristan nodded. "Your father?"

"Yes," Cariad said quickly. She rubbed absently at her left shoulder blade.

Tristan fought the tug of compassion that pulsed in his chest. He looked out the window, away from her searching gaze. "It is not shameful to grieve, Cariad."

Cariad closed her eyes against the defeat that threatened to consume her. "My father gave the best of years of his life to Rome and all the years after to me. He is at peace. I have no reason to grieve."

Tristan bit his lip hard before he spoke again. He turned his dark eyes on her, hoping they were only hard enough to communicate his point. "The dead have no need for it. Grief is for the living."


	4. Darkness

**SEMPER LIBER**

Summary: A dying man's final request sends a young woman to a new life at Badon Hill. TristanOC.

Disclaimer & Author's Note: I like to think that Malory would have his legends of King Arthur belong to the ages, but I cannot lay claim to them nor to those responsible for the 2004 film by the same name. Thank you for reading, and enjoy! There will be some real action soon, I promise. In the meantime, let me know if I'm on course.

Chapter 4: Darkness

Percival loitered. He'd tucked himself against the wall at the top of the stairs nearest the knights' quarters and was scratching idly at a badly mangled piece of wood. He had not seen Tristan the night before after his cousin had departed the stables, and it irked him that the older knight had not returned to the halls for a drink and much sought-after gossip.

Eager footsteps sounded on the stairs below him, and Percival was not in the least surprised to see Galahad trotting up the stones. Galahad paused a few steps below his friend. "What are you doing here?"

Percival tilted his head slightly and slowly shaved a thin curl of sawdust off the wood in his hand. It was much easier to pretend he had Tristan's quiet, sharp take on the world when Tristan himself wasn't around to ruin the game. "Same as you, I suppose," he said nonchalantly.

Galahad planted his hands on his hips. Where Percival made himself an imp and a nuisance, Galahad had perfected the whine and pout of a ten-year-old boy which, considering that he was more than twice that age, was somewhat impressive. When they weren't pestering their older fellows, Percival and Galahad could often be found together, the youngest brothers in a group of stout and brave men.

"Well, has she been out?" Galahad asked.

Percival raised his head slightly. "Do you think I'd be sitting here if she had?"

"She's had breakfast in the kitchens an hour ago," Kay said, climbing the stairs behind Galahad. He clapped the young knight on the back, a little harder than he had to. "Perhaps if you'd gone down to eat with the rest of us, you'd have gotten your chance to blush and stutter like school girls in front of her." He winked, his face flushed to match his hair. "I'm riding out to hunt hare. Either of you lasses care to join me?"

-

Bors lifted his sixth, a boy, from the cold stone floor. The little bastard was soaked head to toe, on his way across the kitchen and out the door. "Vanora!" he bellowed. "I got one!"

"Well, bring him back in, then!" she hollered.

Bors lifted the five-year-old under one burly arm. He dropped two bloodied rabbits on the floor a few feet from the wooden tub. He set the boy down. "Listen to your mother," he said sternly.

Vanora frowned at the dead animals. "I'm such a lucky woman," she said, scrubbing at the four's hair.

"Mama," the little boy whined. "I can do it!"

Vanora dipped her hands into the lukewarm water. "Do it then," she said with a distracted smile. She looked up at her lover. "Have you seen the girls?" she asked, referring to their two eldest children.

"I think I saw 'em sneaking about the dressmaker's house," he mused. "They're the beautiful little redheads that look like you, right?"

Vanora rose from her aching knees. Her mouth twisted in a smile, dragged down on one side by her attempt at a disgruntled smirk. "Lancelot was by," she said coyly. "He told them about Arthur's new girl. I turned my back and they were gone."

Bors stepped around the tub and grabbed Vanora by the shoulders. "You didn't let him in, did you?" He leaned in close, her breath warm and calm on his cheek.

"Mm," Vanora hummed. "Only into the kitchen."

Bors growled and crashed his lips into hers.

-

Tristan meant to follow Cariad, but found himself tracking Lancelot instead. The sun had set whilst they ate with Arthur and the rest of the knights in the tavern's overcrowded kitchen. Nearly two feet of snow made the task of eating and drinking properly impossible, and Tristan had found himself pressed uncomfortably between Galahad and Dagonet, unimpressed with the experience of sharing his space so closely, even with his fellow knights.

Lancelot's footsteps were quieter than the girl's, and they were not particularly challenging to follow. They faded in and out of his view like shadows, stepping into the flickering lanterns and out again, their dark hair disappearing in the dark passages between. After a few missed turns, Cariad found the stables and disappeared into their warmth and quiet. Lancelot looked around, his eyes settling knowingly on the spot where Tristan lounged against the wall of the courtyard. He smirked and disappeared into the stables, and Tristan followed.

-

Cariad raised her head from her horse's dark, warm shoulder. She knew she'd been followed, and would have lashed out if she'd known him better. She wanted to be alone, but not in the loneliness of her new quarters. She murmured quietly to the horse and laid her hand flat against his barrel. "Lancelot," she sung softly.

"Yes, my lady?" Lancelot stepped from the shadows to lean his arms on the stall barrier between himself and Cariad.

She smiled weakly. "Why are you following me?"

Lancelot leaned on one elbow and smirked. "It's not safe for a woman to wander around the fort alone after dark. There are a number of lonely men cooped up here in the winter months."

"I can see that," Cariad said, raising one delicate brow in annoyance. In her head, she relented. He was amusing and, as far as she was concerned, harmless.

Lancelot laughed, a rich, haughty sound, but full of real mirth. "Bors has gotten to you," he said knowingly.

"Aye," Cariad said. She paused. "Vanora, too."

"And I suppose you believed every word," he said lazily.

"I didn't," Cariad sighed. "But all the same, I am not likely to choose your company to keep me safe from those lonely men."

Lancelot grinned. "And what makes you think I have anything other than good intentions in engaging you?"

"I believe you have as many good intentions regarding any woman as you have bad ones." She pressed her lips together, suppressing a smirk.

"You've got a sharp tongue," Lancelot mused. He sighed at last, and when he raised his eyes again, she saw the goodness and sincerity that lay beneath the bravado. "I hope you will be happy here. As Arthur's ward, you have all of us for guardians." He chuckled and motioned to the loft. "I'll let Tristan see you back to your rooms. You took quite a few bad turns on the way here."

Cariad closed her eyes, and when she opened them, the dark knight had gone. She turned her face into her horse's neck again, breathing in his familiar, earthy smell. Many slow minutes passed before she spoke. "And you, Tristan? Why do you follow me?" She heard his near-silent descent from the loft and his quiet footsteps across the barn floor. She waited, and he said nothing for some time.

"You want to be alone," he said finally.

Cariad twisted her fingers in the horse's mane. She met his dark gaze with her own, and was torn by the sadness she saw reflected there. She ached.

Tristan tore his gaze away. "Lancelot's right. I'll wait outside until you are ready to go to your room." He turned and strode away purposefully, but his mind raced, tripped, fell. It took everything in him to keep from going back, taking her face in his hands, and forcing her to tell him everything. He wanted to draw the pain out of her like a thread, tugging until there was nothing left. He wanted to see her break.

"Tristan," she called softly.

He paused, but did not dare turn towards her voice for fear of indulging his cruel impulses.

"Thank you."

Tristan shook his head and slipped out into the cold night. He watched out of the corner of his eye as she pressed her forehead against the horse's neck, her shoulders shaking. She cried for some time before a tortured sob broke through the shuddering silence. Over the violent quickening of his heart, the near-sickening rush of compassion rushing through his veins, he heard himself whisper, "_You'll be all right, you're all right._"

When she emerged a short time later, Tristan offered her his arm. Cariad looked up at him curiously, her dark eyes dull and rimmed red. "Come," he said, closing his free hand over her wrist where it rested lightly on his own.

The silence between them was at once comfortable and tumultuous. At her door, Tristan turned Cariad towards him suddenly. He took her face in his hands, his fingers curling roughly through her hair and around to the nape of her neck. Cariad gasped, searching desperately for breath when Tristan pressed his forehead against her own, his eyes closed in pain.

"Tristan?" she whispered.

Tristan's eyes flew open. He pulled away from her violently, his fingers catching in the dark tangle of her hair. He ripped apart the darkness that had drawn them together. "I'm sorry." He held her gaze, searching futilely for something to explain the attraction he felt towards her, the undeveloped affection. "Good night," he said finally.

"Good night," he heard her whisper.

He wanted to tear her down and put her back together, and see what he had made.


	5. Fight

**SEMPER LIBER**

Summary: A dying man's final request sends a young woman to a new life at Badon Hill. TristanOC.

Disclaimer & Author's Note: I like to think that Malory would have his legends of King Arthur belong to the ages, but I cannot lay claim to them nor to those responsible for the 2004 film by the same name. Thank you for reading, and enjoy!

A/N#2: I wrote three completely different chapter fives. I don't know that this is the right way to go, so... I hope it's acceptable. Special thanks to TRO.

Chapter 5: Fight

A week of pale sunlight melted the snow, leaving behind a thin crust of ice that glittered in the moonlight. Tristan climbed the stairs from the knights' quarters to the battlements above. The sky was crisp and cold, and it washed through him like a drink from a fresh spring stream. He laid his hands atop the watch-wall and sighed. "You'll catch your death," he said to the black edges of the forest.

Cariad said nothing, nor did she move from her perch inside an embrasure not five feet to Tristan's right.

"Your mother was a Briton?"

"Yes, though I never knew her."

Tristan spoke to the stairs. "She gave you her life. It's an honor."

"No," Cariad said, shaking her head in the darkness.

-

Vanora crossed the busy tavern and ducked into the kitchens. She draped her heavy cloak on the table at the center of the room. Cariad turned from her washing and smiled wearily. "You, my wonderful girl," Vanora said, taking the younger woman's shoulders in her hands. "What've you fed them tonight?"

Cariad swung the pot from the hearth with a thick towel. "Potato stew, same as yesterday. Bors and Dagonet brought back a deer this morning." Reaching brazenly into the pot, she pulled out two soft pieces of venison and handed one to Vanora. "I told them they'd better prepare it if they wanted it cooked." She grinned suddenly and popped the meat into her mouth. "Your Bors was quite offended."

"But I see his stomach won out, as usual." Vanora sat heavily on the bench beside the table.

Cariad took a seat beside her new friend. "How do you have the time to care for them all?" she asked quietly.

"Tired?" Vanora laughed.

"I've never cooked for more than two in my life. But that's not what I meant."

Vanora pressed her hand to her softly rounded abdomen. "Someone has to care for them," she said simply, but her eyes shone.

"You've got eight children of your own. Ah, nine," Cariad added with a blush.

"Arthur treats them fairly and with the utmost respect and compassion. But they all could use a woman's touch." Vanora smiled wryly. "A sister, a mother. Many of them were not fifteen when they arrived. They grew up with swords in their hands." She paused. "Your father was one of them."

Cariad turned quickly. "He was."

Vanora slid an arm around the younger woman's shoulders and pulled her close. "They all knew within an hour of your arrival. Percival does not have the most prudent mouth among them."

Cariad frowned. "Is that why none of them will leave me alone?"

"Maybe," Vanora said, reaching for a piece of leftover bread from dinner. "Except for Lancelot, of course. He'll follow any girl so long as she's pretty."

"So you say," Cariad mused, blushing. "He does know that his behavior is ridiculous, does he not?"

"I dare say he does," Gawain said, appearing in the doorway behind them. "There are many silly girls running around this fort and he's got quite the reputation among them. His ego is well and consistently fed."

Cariad stood quickly and helped Vanora to her feet.

"Bors is looking for you," Gawain said, mirth sparkling in his blue eyes. "He's overdone it tonight and the littlest one won't stop crying for his mother."

"And I suppose you did nothing to encourage him," Vanora said, slapping Gawain lightly on the cheek.

"Good night, Vanora," Cariad said softly. Not for the first time, Vanora chuckled at the juxtaposition of the girl's character. She was kind and polite in her own way, but she kept a sharp tongue and a sharper wit behind the sweet, innocent veil of her face.

Vanora smiled in return. To Gawain she said, "I hope your night is terrible, you awful excuse for a man."

He grinned as she bustled out the doorway and into the night. When she was gone, he looked brightly to Cariad, extending his hand. "Your chariot awaits." Cariad laughed.

-

"What are they doing now?" Kay asked, grinning.

Tristan shook his head slowly. "Teaching her to play at Seven Hills."

Across the tavern, Percival laid out a set of seven cards. He looked at his own cards, then played one with an air of careful deliberation on the hill card farthest to his left. Cariad frowned, pursing her lips as she considered the cards in her hands. Beside her, Galahad pointed to a card, then gestured to one of the cards already laid out on the table. Cariad looked at him dubiously. He explained the move with a boyish grin.

Kay narrowed his eyes. "They're cheating."

"I know," Tristan answered calmly.

"They're not playing for anything, are they?"

Tristan smirked, watching the dishonest game play out in Percival's favor. "No."

"Small favors," Kay muttered. "You're just going to let them play her?"

"She'll figure it out," Tristan said, taking a bite of his apple.

Kay clapped his friend heartily on the back. "You like her," he said knowingly.

Tristan cocked his head to the side as if considering the object of his fellow's estimation. He shrugged noncommittally. He watched, hawk-eyed, as Percival dealt again. He offered Cariad the first turn. After a few plays, Cariad stood from the table and pointed at Percival.

"Shenanigans!" she cried, turning her accusing finger on Galahad.

Tristan swallowed his long-anticipated amusement behind pressed lips. He crossed the tavern purposefully. He took Galahad by the collar and removed him from the table. "Sit," he said to Cariad.

"Hey!" Galahad protested.

Cariad raised a brow, lips parted in an incredulous half-smile. "You knew," she said to Tristan, laughter behind the charge in her eyes.

Tristan sat, pulling Cariad down beside him with a gentle tug on the sleeve of her dress. He raised a dangerous glance to his cousin. "Deal again."

Cariad pushed her cards toward Percival and turned to study Tristan's profile. "How can I be sure you won't cheat me, too, sir knight?" she teased.

Tristan took another bite of his apple, chewing thoughtfully. "You can't."

-

Cariad hated winter. The days were too short, and twilight came too soon. She lay on her back in the loft of the stables, gazing absently through the oxeye window over the entrance. There were no stars to speak of, only flashing suggestions of light. She blinked, and they disappeared.

She heard footsteps in the stables below and waited. At a horse's welcoming whicker, she turned carefully onto her side, hoping to remain unnoticed. She kept her breathing even and low. Tristan looked around, expressionless. She smirked at the top of his head when, thinking himself alone, he selected a stiff brush from the shelf along the wall.

Tristan let himself into his horse's stall, shouldering the grey away when it made to bite him. "Nothing from you," he muttered gruffly. He brushed the stallion with firm, determined strokes. The animal groaned and leaned into the brush. He raised his noble head suddenly, scanning the stable, then pressed his face to Tristan's chest, nibbling at his master's gloves.

"You're a funny one," Tristan said softly, with the barest trace of affection in his voice. "Best make sure no one sees you like this. You'll ruin your reputation." He rubbed the grey's ears, his smile not quite hidden behind the tangle of his hair.

Cariad held her breath behind a mischievous grin. "And what of your reputation?" she called down.

Tristan shrugged, calm as ever. He glanced up to the loft with undisguised amusement dancing behind his eyes. "Come down," he said simply.

Cariad sighed and obeyed. "Does nothing surprise you?" she asked, annoyed. She searched for a hint of the dangerous darkness she'd felt between them the second night, but found only mild affection. She wasn't sure which Tristan she was more comfortable with. There was nothing so impersonal or completely familiar as the deep, gutting loneliness they both knew, and nothing so frightening as the warmth of true affection.

Tristan appraised her openly over the stall door. He smiled slightly, but said nothing.

-

"I don't understand why that pompous Roman ass can't send his own men…"

"Galahad, shut it," Gawain barked.

Galahad tugged on his horse's girth, checking the leather strap. "As far as I'm concerned, a few dead Roman nobles would be an improvement to the landscape."

"Knock it off, boy," Dagonet said, not unkindly. He patted his horse's shoulder firmly, as if apologizing for the weight of his axe hanging from the animal's already heavy equipment.

"We'll be back by tomorrow afternoon," Arthur said, taking his horse's reins from Jols.

Lancelot smirked openly at his friend and commander. "Barring any unfortunate circumstances," he added.

Arthur nodded in the dark knight's direction. "Ennius has requested armed transport to the fortress for his wife and daughters. His scouts have reported woads lurking too near to the village's forest border for his comfort." He mounted his horse and turned to face his knights as they followed suit. "We go for the women and children."

"And none of the other nonsense," Bors proclaimed loudly.

"Let's go on then," Kay said, angling his horse out into the courtyard to join Arthur.

Percival guided his mount into step with Galahad's. "The sooner we leave, the sooner we can return," he grumbled, eyeing the darkening sky. "That is, if the snow doesn't bury us all before sundown."

Tristan rode swiftly past his cousin, sharp, open reprimand burning in his dark stare.

-

He'd had too much to drink, but the sensation was warm in his stomach. He stumbled across her by accident, a basket of the foreign knights' clothes under her arm. As her figure blurred to the left, then snapped back to the middle, he recalled blond rag's harsh grip and the girl's insolent attitude. "Hey!" he called out.

The skinny mutt turned, frowning. When she saw him, she resumed her steady pace towards Arthur's barracks.

"Hey! Where are you going?" He jogged after her, slipping a little in the fresh snow. She bent her head and walked faster. "I know you're not busy, you Sarmatian slut! Or do you prefer sleeping in their filth? Arthur must pay you very well," he guffawed.

She took up a run, but his strides were longer. When he grabbed her arm, she whipped around, her boots sliding across the icy ground. She dropped her basket, freshly mended clothes spilling across the ground. "Let me go!" she yelped. She twisted violently in his grasp.

He pulled her back against his chest, his hands spreading a sick, cold feeling across her stomach. "Settle down, little one," he said, his breath hot and wet against her ear. "A pretty girl like you shouldn't be without company." He pressed his lips to her neck.

Her dagger drove uselessly into the leather edging of his vest. She screamed her frustration at her inability to escape her attacker. She slipped and fell to her knees, her hands scraping painfully across the cold stones. She reached futilely for her dagger as it skittered across the ice. He grabbed her hair and pulled her back up. "Stupid bitch," he growled.

He flung her against a wall. She slid to the ground, her teeth clenched together in pain and anger. She stretched her arm towards the dagger. With a cry of pure fury, she took up the dagger in her left hand, its sharp blade slicing across her palm.

He swayed drunkenly as he leaned over her. She plunged the blade awkwardly into his chest with her left hand. Barely three inches in length, the dagger slid in and out of her attacker's flesh with a slick, wet sound. He cried out, clutching at his right breast. "Whore!" he shouted, staggering backwards.

The bloody dagger still in her hand, Cariad stood and stumbled away, her knees shaking.


	6. Wounded

**SEMPER LIBER**

Summary: A dying man's final request sends a young woman to a new life at Badon Hill. TristanOC.

Disclaimer & Author's Note: I like to think that Malory would have his legends of King Arthur belong to the ages, but I cannot lay claim to them nor to those responsible for the 2004 film by the same name. Thank you for reading, and enjoy!

A/N#2: This got really dark really fast. I don't know if it works, but it's happening, so let me know what you think, if you are so inclined. As always, I sincerely hope that you enjoy!

Chapter 6: Wounded

Heavy trunks littered the foyer of the Roman estate like a herd of gilded cattle. Tristan hid his aggravation better than some of his fellows, but none embarrassed Arthur by expressing his anger. The Roman's younger daughter took one look at the lot of them and burst into tears. "Truly frightful," her mother said to her husband, not bothering to hide her contempt. "These are not Roman soldiers."

Ennius motioned to a plain girl with sad eyes. "My daughter is suddenly ill," he explained, smiling tightly at his wife. The servant hurried across the foyer to rescue the little girl from the savages, clearly as fearful of the knights as her charge.

"You will stay here tonight and escort my family to Badon Hill in the morning," Ennius said.

Arthur's green eyes were hard with unspoken rebuke. "My men will require a hot meal and a proper place to sleep. I expect our horses to be put up with your own," he said, expressing his displeasure in no uncertain terms.

Tristan and Gawain dined in the hall with the others, but left for the Roman's stables shortly after, pausing only for Arthur's subtle nod of dismissal. Tristan spread his bedroll out in the loft and lay down, exhausted and unable to close his eyes for fear of seeing her face. He missed her.

Gawain climbed up the ladder a few minutes later, a tin can swinging from his hand. He pulled off his boots and helped himself to the Roman's imported supply of leather oil, massaging it into his gear until it shone. He wiped his fingers on the hay and held the tin out to Tristan. "Want some?"

"No."

"Think your girl has enough sense to lay low while we're away?" Gawain teased. He unpacked his bedroll deliberately noisily.

"She's not my girl," Tristan murmured, annoyed. He closed his eyes.

Gawain chuckled. "No," he mused quietly. He let a good five minutes' silence lapse between them before he spoke again, more serious this time. "I do worry," he said slowly.

Tristan grunted.

"They didn't take too kindly to Vanora's taking up with Bors at first," Gawain said. He hummed mirthlessly. "I don't think they forgave her taste until after the second one was born."

"Cariad has taken up with no one and is half-Briton besides," Tristan finally barked. "Go to sleep."

Gawain sighed and closed his eyes. "It's not the Britons I'm worried about."

-

Jols woke suddenly, disoriented at first by his surroundings. The unhappy groan of a horse reminded him. He rose carefully from the makeshift cot he'd set up in the stall nearest the colicky pack horse. The mare was leaning against the side of her stall, head bobbing up and down as if she were dizzy. Jols threaded a rope through the mare's halter and led her from the stall. "Come on, then, lass. Let's go on another walk."

He led the horse from the stable, walking her slowly around the cobbled edge of the courtyard. The mare stumbled a little, and Jols put a firm hand on her shoulder. "You'll feel better soon," he promised. He rubbed his hand down her shaggy mane. "Just keep walking."

The mare dug in her heels two laps later, almost falling on the ice as she tried to bolt away from entrance to a nearby alleyway. Jols stepped backwards, leading the frightened animal in tight circles around him until she stopped, her body shaking slightly. "What do you think you've seen?" Jols asked, peering between the buildings. He frowned. "Hello?"

The mare snorted, her wide eyes focusing again on the phantom: a pile of laundry spilled in the alley. Jols gave the mare her head, and she stood stock still while he stepped into the narrow space to examine the debris. He lifted a shirt from the ground, a deep frown dragging at his lips. He blinked once.

"Come on, little lassie," he said to the mare, half-dragging her back to the stable. He bolted her in her stall, retrieved a lantern and the spilled laundry basket, and followed the spotty trail of blood to the entrance of the knights' quarters.

-

From her stinging hands to her throbbing head, Cariad was numb. She went about the motions as if caring for an injured animal. She pulled the half-empty wash bucket from the corner of her room to the side of the bed. She tore a strip of clean linen from one of Vanora's old nightdresses and dipped it into the freezing water. She rang the cloth out and pressed it to her temple, watching without seeing the droplets of blood and water running off her hand and making concentric rings in the bucket.

When the side of her face felt cold, she pulled the cloth away and dunked it back in the bucket. She wiped her face clean, unaware that she had cried at all until she felt the cold sting of the cloth against her eyelids. She made slow, clumsy work of her hands, her left rendered temporarily useless by the blade of her own weapon.

The dagger perched on a small table by the door, carefully placed between her comb and a pair of leather laces she'd taken to mend Tristan's vest. She wondered how it was that a blade could seem dead.

Tristan. She hissed when tears pricked at the back of her eyes.

She startled when Jols banged on the door, his urgent voice echoing in the hallway. After a few moments, she rose and pulled back the bolt. She held the door open a crack, studying Arthur's squire blankly.

Jols noted the blood dried beneath Cariad's nails and her swollen lip. "Who has done it?" he said harshly.

Cariad shook her head. "It's late, Jols," she said, her tongue thick in her mouth. "I promise you, I've had worse." She tried to smile, but the expression tilted off into a watery frown.

"Arthur…" Jols began.

Cariad opened the door further. "Would you help me with my hand?"

Jols looked down at her palm. The laceration was ugly, but little more than a flesh wound. He took her lightly by the wrist and turned her back into her room. He tried not to react when he beheld the dagger, its dark hilt sticky with blood.

"Arthur will want to know the man's name," Jols said. He tore another strip of cloth from the ruined nightdress and knelt on the floor at Cariad's feet. He pressed her upturned hand flat with strong, gentle fingers.

Cariad cleared her throat. "I was not hurt," she said slowly. She waited while Jols tied the makeshift bandage across her stinging palm. Jols considered the scrapes on the heels of her hands. He looked up, asking her not to lie to him. "I was not hurt," she repeated, and he believed her.

Jols rose to his feet. "Bolt your door," he ordered. "I'll send up a hot bath in the morning. The men will be back in the afternoon. I'm seeing to a sick horse in the stables, but I'll stay the night in the next room."

Cariad couldn't force the grateful smile she so wanted to give her caretaker. "Don't neglect the horse for me. Her life is in danger tonight, not mine."

"You will call if you need me," Jols insisted. He watched her face, pale and dull with shock, for any sign that she was listening. He found none.

"I will," Cariad said, her mind already bent on sleep. "Good night, Jols." She retreated into her room and slid the bolt closed. She stripped off her dress and pulled on her nightshift. She slipped beneath the wool blankets. She wondered briefly what Arthur would think before her thoughts turned to Tristan. The sudden foolish longing for his presence – for the kind of warm comfort he had not once offered to her – twisted somewhere in her stomach. She turned her face towards the outer wall, breathing in the cold air that seemed to penetrate the stones.

-

Galahad saw the flash of blue a slow moment before the first arrow struck. By his estimate, the fort was less than a league away. "Woads!" he warned, drawing his bow and firing a shot in a single, practiced motion. His arrow pierced the woad's throat, its fletch buried against the blue flesh.

There were less than ten of the blue devils hidden in the snow-dusted pines. A cacophony of singing bows, hoof beats, and blood-drenched cries echoed off the low grey sky. The natives never emerged from the tree line. Tristan felled two of their attackers to the tune of Gawain's furious cry.

Gawain's bow fell to the ground. He spun his horse towards the carriage, where the Roman woman and her daughters screamed loud enough to summon the entire countryside. He wrenched the woad arrow out of his own bicep, anger and adrenaline masking his pain. He drew his axe awkwardly in his left hand, prepared for close combat if the occasion arose.

"Can you ride?" Arthur shouted, circling the carriage with a keen eye on forest's edge. Gawain nodded shortly.

Galahad felled another two, and Tristan matched his contribution with hawk-eyed accuracy. Tristan's horse hopped backwards with a nervous snort. Kay fired a shot into the back of a retreating woad and held his body ready until the last of them disappeared into the dense, foreboding trees.

"Cowards!" Galahad shouted, his bow still trapped in his cold, aching hands.

"Shut it," Gawain hissed through clenched teeth. He stowed his axe and clutched at his bicep.

Tristan nearly fell as his horse stumbled backwards once more. He stared, blankly mesmerized by the ooze of fresh blood flowing from his cousin's chest. Percival's horse had hobbled itself some twenty feet away, its reins tangled around its forelegs. Tristan knelt on the cold ground before he had the thought to, his head a roaring tempest of devastation.

Galahad stumbled to the ground beside him. "Percival," he said, his voice strung tight. "Get up, you son of a whore!" he shouted, ripping the crudely fletched arrow from his dearest friend's chest.

Tristan pulled his blade and pointed it ruthlessly at Galahad's throat. His hand shook.

"Tristan," Arthur barked.

Lancelot leapt from his horse and grabbed Tristan roughly by the collar, hauling him backwards. Tristan's fingers unfurled from his cousin's wrist, any reluctance he might have felt washed away by the cold that had taken over his body.

"It's done," Lancelot said stiffly, nearly throwing Tristan to his feet.

Arthur flung open the carriage. "Is anyone hurt?" The Roman woman and her daughters clung to each other, shaking and clearly unharmed. He slammed the carriage door closed.

Kay untangled the dead man's horse and led him back to his master. Bors shoved Galahad away and lifted Percival onto the frightened animal's back. The horse shook, clearly upset at the lifeless burden on his back.

Tristan mounted stiffly. He angled his horse close to Percival's and took the grey's reins. He numbly determined to feel nothing but the occasional rub of the other horse's barrel against his leg. Galahad took up on the other side of Percival's horse.

Arthur rode forward, unable to look his men in the eyes. There was nothing to be said that his knights would hear, and nothing that would ease his own sense of failure. Lancelot fell back behind the carriage. Beside him, Gawain wiped his bloodied hand on his leg and let himself bleed.


	7. Bound

**SEMPER LIBER**

Summary: A dying man's final request sends a young woman to a new life at Badon Hill. TristanOC.

Disclaimer & Author's Note: I like to think that Malory would have his legends of King Arthur belong to the ages, but I cannot lay claim to them nor to those responsible for the 2004 film by the same name. Thank you for reading, and enjoy!

A/N#2: The eulogy in this chapter comes as a geographical proxy, for lack of a cultural one.

Chapter 7: Bound

"Put it down, child. You'll ruin it."

"It's already ruined," Cariad murmured, head bent over Tristan's vest. She spoke quietly, deliberately hiding behind the freshly cleaned veil of her hair. Jols had not woken her, and she'd slept late. The length of her slumber had rested her body, still aching from the moment she'd realized that her father would not survive one more night. She'd taken the time to scrub her skin clean of the past days' troubles and wash her hair, dragging her comb through the tangles with vicious force. And when she'd finished, she felt almost clean.

"You're not helping it," Jols said, watching her from the loft. She sat on a low bench in the arena below, feigning ignorance. He tossed down a forkful of hay.

"It's fine."

Jols frowned, annoyed. "You need to be careful."

Cariad glared up at him. "I'm here, aren't I?" she barked. She'd been holed up in the barn with Jols all afternoon, obedient and bored and increasingly disgruntled.

"If you need something to do, you can take the mare around again," Jols said firmly.

Cariad pressed the heel of her injured left hand to the thick leather, holding it in place awkwardly as she forced the new binding through its surface. She succeeded, but at a cost. The leather slipped off her lap and she nearly stabbed herself with the thick needle. "Damn!" she yelped.

Jols descended from the loft. He grabbed the vest from her lap and handed her a lead rope. "Walk the horse," he ordered.

Cariad took the rope angrily. "As you wish." She led the mare out of the stall and took her on a turn around the arena.

Hoof beats clattered in the courtyard outside the stables as she began a second turn. The mare reacted with a huff, but her general disinterest went unnoticed by Cariad. She broke into a smile.

"Walk the horse," Jols repeated. He disappeared into the courtyard to welcome Arthur and his knights home. Cariad kept her pace slow, watching the door and trying to suppress the relief and excitement she felt at their return.

-

The look of hope on her face was too much. Not one of them could bear to look at her, and only Gawain and Arthur tried. Arthur said a word to Jols. Gawain handed the squire his horse's reins and disappeared to the infirmary, his left hand vice-like around his right bicep. Galahad's face was ashen; Tristan's was hard, expressionless.

Cariad stayed out of the way, the mare fidgeting behind her. The knights put up their horses and gear with a sort of musical efficiency. Leather straps slid from buckles. Bits sang. Saddles thudded against stall doors and wooden chests. Horses whickered, weary and grateful, as the harnesses were lifted from their backs. Hard brushes clattered into boxes. Boots scraped across the ground.

Two men came down from the infirmary, and they took Percival away.

-

Galahad drank. He nearly pulled Cariad off her feet when she laid a plate in front of him. "More drink," he grumbled.

Cariad turned on her heel, lips pursed tightly. She returned moments later with a full pitcher of ale and two more plates balanced on her arm. She offered one to Lancelot and the other to Arthur. Bors fasted. Dagonet sat at the end of the table, eating slowly as if pondering each morsel of meat. Kay seemed to be doing his best to match Galahad's heroic efforts.

Arthur laid his hand over Cariad's and pushed his plate away. "See if Gawain will take food," he ordered quietly. He blinked once. "I'll speak to Nevius tomorrow about the rest." He turned back to his knights, dismissing her.

Cariad took the plate and an empty mug up to Gawain's room, barely registering Arthur's promise. A low fire burned in the hearth, dwindling. Gawain's eyes were closed. She did not think he slept. She laid the plate and mug on the small table near the bed and bent to the grate, feeding the dying flame with stripped tinder. She heated a small bowl of water and poured its contents into the mug.

"_Little one?_"

Cariad raised her head and smiled softly for him. "_How is your arm?_"

"I was lucky today," he said.

Cariad looked away. "Are you hungry?"

Groaning, Gawain tried to sit up. She turned quickly at his murmur of pain, supporting him as best she could. "Thank you," he said, his voice gruff with sleep. "I am."

Cariad pulled the table close. "Compliments of Arthur," she said, trying to smile. She swallowed. "What happened today?"

Gawain paused, a hunk of bread raised half-way to his mouth. "Woads," he said finally, and Cariad knew he would say nothing more on the subject. He studied her for a few moments. If he noticed the shadow at her temple or the linen wrap hidden beneath her sleeve, he said did not speak of it.

The fire crackled, throwing off dry heat. Cariad reached into a pocket hidden at her waist and produced a small packet of herbs. She mixed them into the tankard of hot water and pressed the tea into Gawain's hand. "This will help you sleep," she said, tentatively meeting his eye.

Gawain accepted the tea, but did not drink. He stared out the window at the blessedly black sky. "Where I am from…" he started. Cariad looked up. "The Iazyges hold the shoreline between the plains and the Black Sea. Sometimes in the summer, when the wind is high and the sky is dark, it sounds like the sea." He turned his injured arm carefully, forearm up. The broad, black strokes of the tattoo seemed to dance in the firelight. "It's only me and Tristan now." He returned his gaze to the dark night sky. "We're all going to die here."

Cariad knew better than to argue. She didn't believe his assertion, and felt that, maybe in the daylight, he wouldn't either. She motioned to the tea. "It will help." She stood, eyes tearing. She lifted her chin. "_The night hides the worl__d, but reveals a universe._" Her voice trembled. The expression on Gawain's face told her that he understood, and she left before he had a chance to answer her eulogy with a question.

-

Tristan did not look to the night sky. He did not wish for the wind that would bring the sound of the sea. He did not search the blackness around him for colors. He started no fire. He did not undress or clean his weapons. He did not move.

In the hall, Gawain's stubborn footsteps echoed Arthur's firm and even ones. A door opened, Arthur spoke, and then there was his retreat and its blessed silence. Cariad came later, the light but soft scrape of leather boots, listing ever so slightly to the right. The door did its dance – Gawain's, Tristan thought – and she left some unmeasured time later, her feet quicker and less careful.

His hands shook, the knife point hovering an inch from Galahad's throat. Percival pale, and so quickly. Tristan turned over his hands, and there was his cousin's life, staining his fingers and painting the creases of his palms. In the dark, there was no seeing the difference between his own hands and Percival's.

His heart slowed, his lungs drawing breath only at the point of drowning. He said no eulogy.

There, Galahad's drunken stumbling and Kay's red, flushed laugh, tripping across the tragedy as clumsily as a man into a ditch. Bors, abandoning Vanora, the crash of his door far down the hall. Dagonet, at once heavy and silent. Cariad again, pausing to shadow his door. Lancelot's shallow, husky breath, her startled yelp. Tristan could almost see the force with which the dark knight grabbed the girl's wrist. "Leave him be, girl." Her shuddering breath, followed by Arthur, calm and dead and cursed, half-asleep with no hope of finding peace. Three doors: one angry, one resigned, one sadly soft.

And Percival's, silent. Time passed.

Tristan did not have the presence of mind to be glad that she did not say his name. She set the lantern on the floor by his feet. He found his sight in the dark waves at her crown, her head bent as she removed his muddy boots with uneasy hands. Her fingers stumbled over the laces.

There was the dark sea. He laid his hands on her head, the clean strands swimming under the caked blood on his fingers. She looked up, eyes dark, unreadable but for the message he'd given her the night she'd arrived. _Grief is for the living_. It came not in Arthur's language or his own, but in a language he had never allowed himself to understand. Had its unique inflection ever been offered to him before?

She gently removed his hands from her hair. She retrieved the bucket of icy water kept in the corner of the dim room. She knelt before him and took his hands in hers. She washed his hands, the fingers of her left hand curled delicately around his wrist. She winced when he took her injured hand, pulling the water-soaked bandage away from the stinging flesh. Shaking her head, she laid her fingers lightly on his cheek.

Tristan barely breathed when she stood and lifted his shirt over his head. She ran the cloth tenderly over his face and neck. The fresh, clean cold traveled across his shoulders and down his arms. He stole the linen away when her hands touched his chest. He did not know how his arms went around her.

He turned his face into her temple, breathing in the half-frozen stream behind Vanora's home and the lilac scent that accompanied the clean shirts she left on his chair. His hands slid beneath her wool cloak to her waist. He pulled her closer and listened to her breathe. Her lips moved near his ear, but she did not offend the silence with her voice.

It was not until he stood, pushing her away that she spoke. "Tristan."

He turned and stripped off his pants. He heard her spin away from him and could almost feel her panic flood the room. He pulled a clean shirt over his head, ridding himself of his less honorable desires. When he turned to face her, her back was towards him, shoulders shaking and spine rigid. He removed her cloak, and tried not to react angrily when she shuddered. He would not let her be afraid of him.

"Tristan, no."

Slowly, with more tenderness than he felt in the caged burning behind his ribs, he slid her shift off her left shoulder, guided by his memory. Her hand flew to her shoulder as it had the first night. Her fingers brushed his as he touched the dark marks on her shoulder, a life she'd never lived burned into her skin.

"Please, don't."

He knew she would not run from him, knew that she would fight but would do anything he asked of her. He could not hate himself for offering her nothing. She lived. His cousin was dead. Tristan's heart was in the direst need.

He turned her towards him. Her eyes were pressed closed, her lips parted in a shuddering breath. "I mean you no harm," he said, and his words closed her mouth and opened her eyes. He led her to his bed. She lay stiffly against him.

"Tristan."

"Stay," he said. His plea brushed across her cheek.

She nodded and pressed her lips to his forehead. The lantern burned out. She shivered as his fingers trailed over the shadows at her temple and probed the scrapes on her hands. Tears spilled down her cheeks when he pressed her injured left palm to his mouth.

"Don't," he ordered.

She swallowed her tears as best she could. "I'm sorry," she whispered, and he pressed his lips to hers to secure her silence. She gasped under his mouth.

He tangled his fingers in her hair, pulling her closer roughly. His lungs screamed for air. He released her mouth at last, panting, and caught his breath, his face buried in her sweet-smelling neck. When he could breathe again, he begged. "_Just stay._"

She touched his hair tentatively, her body suddenly and serenely still. "_I am._"


	8. Delivered

**SEMPER LIBER**

Summary: A dying man's final request sends a young woman to a new life at Badon Hill. TristanOC.

Disclaimer & Author's Note: I like to think that Malory would have his legends of King Arthur belong to the ages, but I cannot lay claim to them nor to those responsible for the 2004 film by the same name. Thank you for reading, and enjoy!

Chapter 8: Delivered

Morning came slow and grey. It floated through the room, a ghost through the narrow window. Cariad could barely open her eyes, hazy and misted with sleep. She did not know where she was, but the sensation was not unusual. It had been more than a week since she'd slept in the bed that had been hers for more than twenty years. In that week she'd lost her head under the water and, try as she might, she could not find the surface. There was no up, only the near-to-bursting sensation that was at once first blush and last breath.

Tristan's skin was warm summer earth beneath her fingertips. She had no sooner brushed her hand against his cheek than he rose up, a predator summoned from sleep by an imminent sense of danger. His fingers were bruising around her wrists. Her throat closed treacherously around his name. His eyes were open but unseeing for a dreadful time, though it could not have been long before he really saw her.

The eternity ended in her name from his lips. "Cariad." He let her loose and sat back, clearly unperturbed by his behavior.

Cariad forced herself into a sitting position, ignoring the sharp pain in her hands and the ache in her wrists. She pulled her knees to her chest. She tugged her shift down to her crossed ankles and stared. Terror pulsed in her chest, resisting her attempts to soothe it with what she knew about Tristan, clinging to what she did not know. She knew too little to be where she was, and too much to be anywhere else.

She flinched when he moved closer, then froze, the skin of her wrist cold in his grasp. He leaned against the wall and pulled her back against his chest, his arms looped around her shoulders, hands clasped in front of her knees. She shivered when he pressed his face to her neck. He did not render her speechless so much as take away her will to speak.

Sliding her hands carefully down his forearms, Cariad breathed out evenly. She twined her fingers with his and turned towards him slightly, curling her legs beneath her as she pressed face into the hollow of his neck. "Tristan?"

"Hm." He pressed his lips to her temple. He squeezed her hands gently, the burn of her palm fresh against his own. Something was to be said, but Tristan could not determine what it was. To offer her thanks would be tawdry and selfish. To bid her good morning would be to assume her acceptance, when there had been no invitation. To ask her what she knew about love would be painful and useless. There was nothing to love.

Cariad loosed one of her hands and reached up to press her fingertips against the scarred ridge of his collar bone. "Tristan," she said finally, as if in greeting.

"Cariad." He gathered her closer and felt the warm, traitorous feeling of affection well up in his chest.

-

In their twelve years together, they'd learned to live with the dead. They had been more than thirty when they'd arrived. By the end of the fifth year, they were nineteen, nearly half of them gone too young and too young to properly wield a sword. Stones and weapons and breastplates were all that was left of the men Gawain had called brothers. Death was reserved for all of them in this place, narrow beds of cold grass and soil in the spaces between those that had gone before.

Gawain had woken young, curled beside the ghost and memory of another boy from his village. The journey from the east had been long and shelter scarce. Roman soldiers stole whatever proper accommodations they'd happened across. Gawain had been thirteen, four years older than the other, whose name he could no longer remember. There had been nothing for any of them without their brothers except nights whose chill winds threatened hope and life. He'd fallen asleep each night, imagining the other boy was his own younger brother, whose life of service to Rome had been negated by their birth order. The warmth and comfort of the other boy's friendship had ended abruptly at the wall and, not two years later, he was gone for good.

Tristan stood with his back to the grave, silent and dark. Galahad poured libations over the freshly disturbed earth. Tristan closed his hands into tight fists when Galahad began to speak, his miserable voice an affront to the stillness of the burial site. Gawain took Galahad's arm and led him easily away, following the remaining knights to the fort. Galahad shook himself loose.

Percival had been delivered.

-

"Sit."

"I prefer to stand."

Arthur put his hand on the chair. His expression did not tolerate an argument. She sat. "Did you know the man?"

Cariad kept her face blank and her tone even. "I had met him, yes."

"You injured him badly. He is in the infirmary." Arthur looked down on her with undisguised displeasure.

"No more than he deserved," she said defiantly.

"Show me," he said.

Cariad held out her hands for Arthur to see, her palms red and raw from the stones in the alleyway. He unwound the linen from her left hand, his eyes betraying his true sorrow. She was his ward, not his knight. There was no room on her skin for these wounds and scars. Cariad hesitated. She looked away as she raised the hem of her skirt to her knees, exposing the bloody scrapes covering the bone.

Arthur touched her hand gently, and she let her skirts fall to a more modest position. He lifted her chin with two fingers, turning her head from one side to the other as he examined her swollen lip and the bruise that bloomed from her right temple to her cheekbone.

Cariad shook off his hand and his worry. "I should have been more careful." She stood, slightly nauseous from the experience of being on display.

Arthur caught her elbow. "Did he take advantage of you?"

"No," she said quickly. She disengaged, taking her arm from Arthur. She owed him the truth, and the reassurance that repetition would bring. "He did not take advantage of me." Arthur's haunted green eyes stuck her to the spot. "I swear to you."

Arthur nodded finally. "I will speak with Nevius. The man who accosted you will spend the rest of the winter patrolling the length of Hadrian's Wall looking for fissures. Cariad, no Roman soldier will trouble you again."

She met his earnest promise with a smile that she did not mean.

-

Vanora's eldest, a red-headed girl of eleven, removed a loaf of slightly burned bread from the scullery oven. She frowned unhappily. "I've done it better this time, Ma."

Vanora turned the hot bread over in her bare hand, checking the bottom. "It'll do," she said, kissing her daughter lightly on the forehead. "Check the potatoes." Vanora turned her attention back to the rabbit meat on the chopping board.

The girl wrapped the bread in clean cheesecloth and set it aside. She stirred the boiling potatoes absently. "Will Pa come tonight?" she asked.

Vanora wrinkled her nose. "Perhaps. He'll come in his own time." She turned to assess her daughter's thin frame. "It is good enough that he's alive."

"Yes," the girl said quickly, flashing her mother a brief smile. "Of course."

Vanora smiled warmly in return. She glanced up at the sound of the door, and her smile fell. "Oh my goodness!" She rushed across the room with the fervor of a friend and a mother. She was only five years older than Cariad, but twelve years of caring for the men and her own children had made her acutely aware of the sort of suffering that was bestowed specially on those too naïve to defend themselves. "What has happened to you?"

"Nothing that cannot be repaired," Cariad said simply. She smiled at Vanora's eldest. "Hello."

"Hello," the girl answered, confused and undeniably sad.

"What can I do?" Cariad asked Vanora.

Vanora took the other woman's hand with the intent of seating her at the table. She took pause at the sight of the bandage. "Sit," she said softly.

Cariad pulled her hand away. "I will not. I am not an invalid."

Vanora ran her thumb over Cariad's slightly swollen lip, then patted her lightly on the cheek. "Fair enough. Take over the potatoes. I expect the men will be hungry soon."

-

"Tristan!"

Gawain climbed the stairs to the watch wall. The other man ignored him. Gawain grabbed Tristan's shoulder and spun him around, too angry to be disturbed by his friend's inanimation. "Damn it, Tristan."

The Tristan he knew flashed in his dark eyes, then faded again. He raised an eyebrow with the barest interest.

"She's in Percival's room," Gawain barked.

"She liked him."

Gawain shook his friend. "She's going through his belongings. She's making such a racket, she's driving us all mad!"

"Put her out the window," Tristan said simply.

Gawain held out his hand, small flecks of blood scratched into his fingers. "I have tried," he growled. "Go take care of your damn bird!"

Tristan glanced nonchalantly over his shoulder into the darkening night sky. "She will have forgotten him soon."

"And tell me, how are the rest of us supposed to sleep until then?"

Tristan faced Gawain. "I do not care," he said evenly.

"You want to die with him?" Gawain seethed, pushing the other man back against the wall. "Go ahead. You will be disappointing more than just Arthur. You will punish us all, you coward!"

Tristan stared at him, blank-eyed.

Gawain lowered his voice. "You are not the only one in pain, Tristan."

-

Cariad brought Gawain a plate when he came down, nearly an hour after his fellows had left. Kay had removed himself to the corner with a pretty woman whose acquaintance he'd made more than once, and was lost to the rest of them.

"Thank you." Gawain took her elbow, fingers caressing the welcome texture of her sleeve. "Sit with me."

She sat, a tentative smile tugging at the corner of her lips.

"Have you eaten?" he asked, an afterthought.

Cariad nodded. "I have."

She was warm next to him, a breathing, silent comfort. "How is your hand?" he asked around a mouthful of potatoes.

"Better than your arm, I am quite sure," she said with an infectious grin.

"There's my sharp-tongued girl," Gawain said, tapping her chin affectionately with one finger. He returned to his meal.

The tavern was near to full, but none other dared to take a seat at their table. "Galahad…"

"Drank too much, I am sure," Gawain interrupted.

Cariad tipped her head. "Yes. Do you not worry about him?"

"Not inside these walls. He is not such an easy target as you," he said.

"Don't," she said sharply. "Arthur has taken care of it, and I am beyond it. I will hear no more of it."

Gawain finished his ale and pushed his plate away. She reached over and stole the bite of leftover bread. "Perhaps I should have asked if you were still hungry," Gawain chuckled.

Cariad smirked. "Perhaps."

"Your father was Iazyges," Gawain said, pressing the answer to his unspoken question into the sour air. She looked away and nodded. "Does Tristan know?"

"Yes," she said quietly. "He does."

Gawain rose and took her arm in his. "Come. I want to see my horse. Then I will take you to your room."

Cariad sought out Vanora across the tavern. At her friend's nod, Cariad left the plate and tankard on the table and allowed the blond knight to lead her away. Gawain held her companionable silence against him as they made their way to the stables.

He let her go to duck into his stallion's stall. The beast met him affectionately, not least because he'd hidden a handful of carrot scrapings from the scullery in his pocket. Cariad turned her attention to her own horse, touching the black's nose with delicate fingers. Velvet, hay, and a little dirt. "Hello," she sang in a whisper.

"Have you spoken with our friend today?" Gawain's voice startled her, as she had been sure he would pay her no attention until he was satisfied with the health of his equine companion.

Cariad looked over. She could not see Gawain, but she could hear the scratch of a hard brush against the horse's side. "He does not want to be spoken to," she said after a while. She heard Gawain sigh. She itched to confront him, her tongue battling behind closed lips. But for every question she dared ask Gawain, he would have one for her to answer, and she had none.

Gawain leaned over the stall door and dropped the brush into an open trunk. He laid his arms across the top of the divide and watched her keenly in her studied ignorance. "You are different when you are with him."

Cariad turned her head slowly. The horse butted its head against her shoulder. She stumbled and smiled and forgot to be careful. "How so?" she asked, the playful tone of her voice inviting a conversation she did not particularly want to have, at least not with Gawain.

"You do not seem so happy," Gawain answered. "Nor so sharp."

"How dreadful," she said theatrically.

"You're a better sight this way."

Cariad raised an eyebrow. "What way?"

Gawain chuckled and exited the stall. "When you are teasing."

Cariad laughed. "Oh, yes. I had forgotten that it is much more attractive for a woman to be rude and amusing than to be soft and sad." She cocked her head slightly. A man so keen as Gawain was not likely to be fooled by the facade of her words, but she gave them anyway, knowing that they were true enough. "I know you do not believe yourself to be above shaping your character for the benefit of a friend in need."

"No," Gawain mused. "Certainly not."


	9. Sacrifice, Part I

**SEMPER LIBER**

Summary: A dying man's final request sends a young woman to a new life at Badon Hill. TristanOC.

Disclaimer & Author's Note: I like to think that Malory would have his legends of King Arthur belong to the ages, but I cannot lay claim to them nor to those responsible for the 2004 film by the same name. Thank you for reading, and enjoy!

A/N#2: Forgive Tristan's sudden verbosity. I find that people have much more to say when something desperately needs to be said. Besides which, this chapter and, I daresay, the rest of this story would have been utterly boring if things could only be decided by sudden impulses and the inevitable misunderstandings. Do let me know what you think. Enjoy!

Chapter 9: Sacrifice

For the better part of two days, Tristan rid himself of the claustrophobia of the fortress. Winter had come to Badon Hill to stay. He reclined against a tree not far from the forest's edge, the stones of Hadrian's Wall in plain view. He whistled, sharp and low. After several moments, his hawk appeared in the pale grey sky. She circled indifferently. She finally came to rest on a low branch over Tristan's head, shaking her feathers. He raised a hand, a piece of dried meat held between his index and middle fingers. The bird snatched it up greedily, cocked her head at him as if seeing him for the first time, and took flight.

Tristan had not avoided his kind companion, but neither had he sought her out. Unusually ashamed, both of his strange behavior and her own fear of him, he had not engaged her in conversation. Passive, he'd watched her dance easily into close camaraderie with Gawain and, by extension, Galahad, who had taken to the blond knight like a younger brother in Percival's absence.

He considered his hands, worn from twelve years of cutting down woads, the blue ghosts from Britain brought back by those few Sarmatian men fortunate enough to survive their slavery. Had she felt those years in the boldness of his touch? Tristan knew she had felt his anger, for he had felt her fear. What was there to him that she could possibly esteem?

It had been so long since he'd searched his own face in the glass, but he knew its flaws. He hid, a fearsome thing, behind the tattoos of his tribe and the tangles of his uncut hair. And hers, distressingly open, plain and pretty. There was nothing she thought or felt that did not make its way to her lips or her eyes. It was the fierce determination there that had first captivated him, then the darkness that so mirrored his own. He'd taken what he wanted without thinking. And she had given.

He rose gracefully to his feet. He untied his horse and turned him in the direction of the fort. The cold wind pushed his hair back from his cheeks and stung his eyes.

-

Gawain looked up to where Cariad sat on the table in front of him, obnoxiously kicking her feet against the bench on which he sat. "Stop."

She took an unladylike bite of the hard apple she'd taken from the kitchens. "What do you do all winter?" she asked.

"Cards, dice, drink." Lancelot slid onto the table next to Cariad and wrapped his arm nonchalantly around her waist. He raised his eyebrows suggestively. "Women."

Cariad elbowed him hard in the chest. "I am going for a ride," she announced. She did not look back as she left the tavern, skirts swinging carelessly in the frozen mud. Dagonet rose silently from the end of the table and followed her. He thought his horse could use the fresh air, especially considering that Arthur would never have liked the girl riding out on her own in the first place.

Kay smacked Lancelot on the back of the head and sat heavily beside Gawain. "Are you learning your letters?" he asked incredulously.

"I can read," Gawain said sharply, glaring up at the fiery-haired knight. "I'd like to be able to write."

"For what possible purpose?" Lancelot laughed.

"So that I may compile a list of all the ladies whose beds you have spoiled without payment in the last twelve years," Gawain barked. "And see that they are given their fair wages."

Lancelot smirked, kicking at the bench as the girl had done before him. "I think perhaps you would be better off writing a love letter."

Gawain nearly stabbed Lancelot with his stylus. "Go find some Roman ass to play dice with, Lancelot."

Lancelot jumped down from the table and wandered off in the direction of the kitchens, swaggering deliberately as he passed a pair of young women loitering near the open door.

Galahad entered the tavern a moment later with the air of a confused pup. A look of keen interest wiped away the put-upon weariness that had dressed his face before. "Have I missed something good?"

Kay roared with laughter.

-

She was like a ghost, thin and grey and half-hidden in the flickering lanterns of the stable. She laid her hand flat against her horse's face and bent her head close to his ear, lips moving in seeming silence. She spun around when she heard him, a bright smile plastered on her face. "Tristan!"

Tristan nodded a greeting. He put up his horse, acutely aware of her quiet movements around the barn. She came to a stop outside his horse's stall, her hands curled over the door. He felt her eyes on him, attentive without being overly curious. "Is there something you want?" he asked, tiring of her attention.

"We have barely spoken in three days, Tristan," Cariad said.

"You have had other company," he said. He turned to face her, not unhappily.

She broke into a slow, bemused smile. "Tristan, really."

Tristan opened the stall door, gently pushing her out of the way. He stowed his equipment. Sighing, he resigned himself to her presence and his desire for it. He took her face in his hands. "You care for me." She nodded, seeming suddenly small. "Why?"

"We are friends, Tristan." Cariad reached up to wrap her fingers around his wrists. "Beyond that… I don't know." Her lips twitched in a nervous smile. "We are alike, you and I."

Tristan slid his hand to the nape of her neck and pulled her close, kissing her fiercely. She took a short step backwards, caught off-balance by the hard slant of his lips over hers. Cariad clutched desperately at his collar. His free hand went to her waist, his fingers pressing bruises into her skin as he pulled her closer.

"Tristan," she mumbled, her half-hearted protest smothered by his kiss.

The burning heat of her beneath his hands took Tristan away from his better senses. Here was another moment whose life was thrown away by his impulses. Tristan could not deny that he wanted her completely, with a ferocity reserved for the only arena he'd known for the past twelve years. She gasped, a sound of half-pleasure, half-pain that came at him as if from underwater. It echoed, and it sounded familiar.

"Wait," she stuttered, tearing her mouth away.

Tristan barely had the presence of mind to comply. He pressed his forehead against hers, breathing heavily. "Cariad, I…" Her breath fluttered against his cheek.

"You're hurting me," she whispered, eyes closed tightly. Her fingers loosened slightly on his wrist.

Tristan pulled away. He stared at her swollen lips, the mark of his fingers on her neck, mesmerized by the violence of his attentions. He pushed her away roughly, betrayed by his own behavior.

"Ah," she gasped, stumbling backwards. She caught herself unsteadily against the wall that lay some five feet behind her. "Tristan! What is wrong with you?"

"You," he muttered before he could stop himself. He looked up quickly. The pain in her dark eyes was unmistakable, a hasty reaction to his hasty words. She turned on her heel and stalked towards the courtyard. "Do not leave!" he shouted angrily.

Cariad stilled, her fists clenched tightly at her sides. She turned slowly, reproach darkening the generally pleasant features of her face. "Have you no affection for me at all?" she asked, her voice shaking slightly.

"You know I have," Tristan said evenly. Carefully, he added, "I may love you."

She shook her head. "I will not have a man who can love me only as he would an unfortunate token of a life lost." She took a deep breath and added, sadly resigned, "I am your friend, but I will not let you hurt me. Whether you intend it or not."

Tristan felt something in him break a little. "You are a great comfort to me," he said. "There has never been such kindness bestowed upon me as yours." He reached out to her, and she moved away.

"If your love can only be so impersonal, I am sure I will never have it," Cariad said, her defiance melting under the quiver of her chin.

Tristan growled, the affront to his tortured feelings too much for him to bear. "If I am so reprehensible, perhaps you should take your affections to Gawain. He can be quite compassionate when it comes to his favorites, of which you certainly are one." He would begrudge her her friendship with the other knight if only to see his pain reflected on her face.

Cariad's eyes went wide. "What do you play at, Tristan?" she asked breathlessly.

Tristan shrugged. "He will not give up his doomed desire to take a Sarmatian wife to give him love and children." She looked vaguely ill and he smirked, oddly pleased by her cowed reaction. "You might be so kind as to do this favor for him now that he might enjoy his foolish dream before his inevitable death," he spat.

Cariad swallowed back her tears. "What are your motives in treating me so unfaithfully?" Her hands shook under the folds of her cloak.

"My attentions are too impersonal to have been refined by thought," he muttered. He brushed past her roughly, headed for the courtyard.

Cariad reached out, grabbing his arm with both hands. She tugged with all her strength and pulled him around. She leaned in to speak directly into the face of his anger. "Is it jealousy that compels you to speak to me so, or anger at my impertinence? Or perhaps it is love after all, hidden behind such a mask that I fear I shall never see it."

"Would knowing my motives change your perception of my behavior, or do you only wish to satisfy your injury through curiosity?" he said sharply. Tristan watched, distressed, as the ferocity faded out of her eyes and she bit her lip.

She touched his cheek tenderly. "You do me no favors by sparing me now from that pain that will set upon me should you find your death here. You are a good man, Tristan," she whispered, tears shining in her eyes.

Tristan turned his head away. "Arthur is a good man."

Cariad forced him to look at her. "Even your great Arthur could not make a man such as you from a wretch," she vehemently. She kissed him softly. "I know your anger," she added quietly. "But I would have you find happiness in my company, if you can." She looked up at him, imploring.

After a moment, Tristan matched her hesitant kiss. He put his arms around her and buried his face in the warm smooth curve of her neck. "I do love you," he murmured.

_Love freely_.

Cariad felt tears sting at the back of her eyes and smiled into his hair. She cradled his head in one hand. She felt the weight of him, laid so sincerely at her feet, and she did not leave him there.


	10. Touch

**SEMPER LIBER**

Summary: A dying man's final request sends a young woman to a new life at Badon Hill. TristanOC.

Disclaimer & Author's Note: I like to think that Malory would have his legends of King Arthur belong to the ages, but I cannot lay claim to them nor to those responsible for the 2004 film by the same name. Thank you for reading, and enjoy!

A/N#2: Ah… not for kiddies. And… yeah. Heed the rating and I hope it works for you. Because this is not my shtick. And… that's that. On to the show.

Chapter 10: Touch

Vanora slept fitfully. In her dreams, she beheld their eyes, all of them, swimming with a pain she had never herself experienced. She saw those who had gone before. Men whose faces she barely remembered surrounded her, faces twisted in silent agony. She had never heard their screams or seen them in the rare moments between life and death as her lover had. She had only seen the dead-eyed faces of those left behind, torn between sorrow and jealousy. They closed in on her now, their hands grasping at her clothes, trying to tear the life from her womb. She woke with a scream.

Bors held his knife in his hand before he was fully awake. Now alert, he touched his lover's brow, damp with sweat. "Come now, woman. You're all right." He stroked her cheek with a tenderness that would have surprised his fellows. "What's it been now?"

Blinking slowly, Vanora came up through the surface of the nightmare. "The same as it's ever been," she answered. She turned towards him in earnest. "You are not allowed to die here. You are not allowed to leave me."

Bors laid a heavy hand on her abdomen. "You waste your time worrying over me," he insisted. "You would be better off spending your thoughts on the little ones." He grinned in the darkness. "Which will this be? Eight?"

"Nine," Vanora said, slapping him lightly on the chest. "And you know it."

"Ah, yes. Nine," Bors said thoughtfully. "Perhaps you will give me a boy this time?"

Vanora scrubbed her fingers over her eyelids. "If it were up to me, they'd all be boys. Three girls are plenty enough to worry about."

"How long till we find out?" Bors asked.

Vanora slapped his hand away. "No more than two months, I suspect."

"You're a strong horse of a woman."

"A horse?" Vanora protested. "Have you any idea at all how to treat a woman?"

Bors kissed her cheek. "How many children do we have again?" He pulled her into his burly arms and held her while she drifted back to sleep, thoroughly exhausted.

-

There was a little bit of sunshine, and not much wind. He found her curled in the embrasure nearest the knights' quarters, one of her usual haunts. Tristan leaned down, peering under the narrow ledge that topped the arrow-shield. "Are you never cold?" he teased.

Cariad smiled slightly, reaching out with one pale hand.

Tristan took it, running his thumb over her knuckles. "You smile so often."

"Should I be sad?"

He seemed to consider her question, a measure of warmth rising to his eyes from beneath the lingering absence of his cousin and the grey landscape of the life he had led before her arrival. She had changed nothing but the circumstances, painting a little unexpected color around the edges of his destitution. The weeks since his cousin's death had been eased by her selfless attentions and, on the occassions that she allowed him to share her bed, his own surprising tenderness in response to her nightmares.

"No," he said finally. Tristan raised her delicate hand to her lips. He bent to press a kiss to her forehead. He let a smile creep onto his face when she tilted her face up, meeting his lips with her own. He pulled away slowly, struck for a moment by her sweetness. Eyes closed, her lashes lay dark on her pale skin, her face still upturned, half-shadowed beneath the weak sunlight.

Tristan did not offend her by asking the question foremost in his mind, but resigned himself to believe in the conviction of her emotions. She opened her eyes and regarded him warmly. "Go on, then," she said. "Leave me alone."

He smirked, tracing the line of her jaw with his thumb. "As you wish."

-

Gawain could only grin as he watched his two friends stumbling carelessly about the tavern, coltish and unashamed. He hid a chuckle behind his drink when Cariad tripped over Galahad's foot. The younger man grabbed at her waist, spinning her awkwardly to her feet again. They both laughed, faces flushed with amusement.

Beside Gawain, Lancelot lounged suggestively, half-ignoring the attentions of the young woman in his lap. He held her tight against him and leered across Gawain at Tristan. "Looks like Galahad has stolen your girl," he taunted.

"She's not my girl," Tristan answered nonchalantly. He picked at his nails with the tip of his knife, watching the youngest of them dancing in and out of the torchlight against a backdrop of red Roman cloaks.

Lancelot laughed out loud, half-drunk and deliberately obnoxious. "I don't know what she sees in him," he said, a little too loudly. "There are more attractive men, and ones that are full grown at that!" The girl on his lap smacked him lightly but did not make to leave.

"He can't be much older than she," Gawain said, casting a sideways glance at Tristan. "Let them have their fun."

Tristan scratched idly at his cheek to hide his amused smirk. He ducked his head, following the dancers' movements beneath lowered lids. Their boots scraped across the tavern stones, caked with mud. Galahad glowed, his hands warm and steady on his partner's waist. Her hair slipped loose from her messy braid, dark fringes clinging to her cheeks.

Rising from the table, Tristan drained his ale. He raised his empty mug to his fellows and to his cavorting friends. Gawain waved his hand absently. Cariad skipped awkwardly over Galahad's feet, grinning.

Lancelot furrowed his brow, glancing from Tristan's retreating form to the girl. The silent knight's head tilted in her direction, so briefly that Lancelot thought he might have imagined it. "I never took Tristan for a liar," he mused to Gawain.

The blond knight smirked, never taking his eyes from his young friends. Galahad stumbled to a halt, nearly dragging Cariad off her feet. They both laughed, still but for Galahad's slightly drunken sway. "Shut up, Lancelot," he laughed. "Mind your own business for once."

-

Tristan rested quietly, not bothering to feign sleep. He ran his calloused thumb along the blade of her dagger. It had been carefully cleaned since its last use. He traced the markings in the handle. _Bedwyr_. He glanced up when she entered, gauging her reaction to his intrusion.

"What are you doing?" Cariad asked softly. She shifted her gaze from his eyes to the dagger and back.

Tristan took in her face, still flushed from dancing. "Do you ever wake up with this in your hand?"

"Yes," she answered simply.

Tristan swung his legs over the side of the bed, turning over the dagger in his hands. "You can't be more than twenty," he mused.

"Twenty-two," she said, taking the blade from his hand. She placed it on the table beside the bed. "Why?" she asked, studying him carefully.

"You are lucky you were not born a boy."

Cariad sat in the chair by the unlit fire. "Hm?" She made herself busy untangling her boot laces, waiting for him to elaborate. His presence was not unwelcome, only unexpected. Her fingers refused to cooperate.

"You'd have been a year younger than Galahad," Tristan said at length. "And Percival."

Cariad raised her head, loose hair straggling over her shoulders.

Tristan watched her evenly. "You'd have been Arthur's ward long before now. They'd have stolen you from your father twelve years ago, when you were barely old enough to hold a sword." He paused. "You would not have been the youngest among us."

"How many?" Cariad asked quietly.

"I hardly remember," Tristan admitted. "At least four times what we are now."

Cariad finally shed her boots, pausing when she noticed Tristan's on the floor by the hearth. Smirking, she finally looked him in the eye. "Feel free to make yourself comfortable," she said wryly. She pushed her hair back behind her ears as he stood.

"Are you still afraid of me?" he asked, tamping down his disappointment.

Her face was such a mixture of emotions as to be nearly unreadable. "Not as such."

Tristan closed the distance between them in a single stride. He took her face in his hands and kissed her as gently as he could manage. She returned his kiss, timidly at first, then with more confidence. He tangled his fingers in her hair and pressed his palm to the small of her back, pulling her closer. She stilled for an instant before wrapping her fingers in the fabric of his shirt.

When the need for air overwhelmed his senses, Tristan pulled away. He ran his thumb over her cheek, the dark desire in her eyes sparking his own. Reaching behind her to the door, he slid the bolt closed. There was no ignoring the anxious shade in her eyes. Tristan summoned what he hoped was a reassuring smile. "_You must not be afraid of me._"

Cariad raised her chin defiantly. "_I am not afraid._" Tugging playfully at one of his braids, she pulled his mouth to hers. Her kiss was clumsy with inexperience, but sincere. Tristan returned her attentions, guiding her tenderly. He pried her fingers from his shirt and lifted it over his head.

Sad horror crossed her pretty features. Tentatively, she raised her hands to the trace the scars that crossed his collarbone and ribcage. His fingers circled her wrists, but he allowed her to touch him where his skin had closed over once exposed bone and muscle, thin ridges of numb flesh whose memories he did not want to recall.

Tristan bent his head to kiss her temple, committing himself to the tenderness he knew she'd need. As her fingers trailed over the six-inch scar on his left side, he sighed, burying his face in her hair. She pressed her lips to the scar over his collarbone, the place she'd pressed her fingers after he'd frightened her so badly that morning so many weeks ago, searching for the wound that had enraged him so.

Turning Cariad towards the window, Tristan untied the belt at the waist of her simple dress. She shivered. He laid his hands heavily on her shoulders. Her skin was warm beneath the cloth. Brushing her hair over her shoulder, Tristan breathed in deeply. He pulled her dress carefully over her head, keenly attuned to the whisper of the fabric over her pale skin.

Cariad breathed his name, her heart fluttering madly in her chest. She gasped when he dropped her dress to floor and cupped her breast in his hand. The battle-hardened skin of his palm burned against her flesh. She leaned into his touch instinctively. Her stomach fluttered when he laid his other hand flat against her abdomen. She closed her eyes, reaching back to cradle his head in her hand. His lips caressed the skin above her tattoo, mouth hot and wet against her flesh. She shuddered, tortured by the slow slide of his hand, her control shattered by the strange but pleasant sensation of his fingers between her legs. She felt deliciously weak.

Hooking one arm across her chest, Tristan pressed his fingers against her, aroused as much by her complete submission as by the dampness between her thighs. It did not take long for her to break, pulsing against his hand. He matched her soft cry with a groan and held her shivering body against him.

Cariad floated from his arms to the bed, senses softly blurred. She stroked his face with tentative fingers, still shaking from the newness of his touch, the fear and exhilaration. Tristan bent to kiss her mouth. She blushed when he pulled away, making quick work of his pants. He climbed gracefully into the bed beside her, skin damp and hot against hers. He studied her face, her eyes wide with something on the line between trepidation and anticipation.

Taking her hand in his, Tristan wrapped her fingers around his erection, her palm damp on his over sensitized flesh. He closed his eyes and bit his lip as he directed her fingers, rubbing himself between her thighs. Her breath puffed erratically against his cheek. She gasped at his touch, her blood pulsing to the rhythm of his ministrations.

He poised himself carefully at her entrance and tangled his other hand in the hair at the base of her neck. He entered her swiftly, smothering her surprised cry of pain with his mouth. He soothed the hurt reflected in her eyes with a gentle kiss and a promise. He waited until she nodded silently, reaching up to pull his mouth down to hers. Sliding a hand over her hip, he lifted her leg over his, opening her to his intrusion.

Cariad wrapped her arm around his shoulders, nudging her hips experimentally against his. Groaning, he pushed back, rocking against her with the barest control. Her arm tightened around him when he pressed into her, the strange sensation of him inside her knotting pleasantly in her stomach. Barely able to catch her breath, she buried her face against his neck, murmuring her pleasure in time with his thrusts.

Tristan's hands traveled her hips, fingers tightening instinctively as he felt his release approaching. He reveled in the way she clung to him, desperate and strung tight with need. The pressure became unbearable and he let himself go, crashing into her mindlessly. She shuddered weakly beneath him as he came, growling his release into the curve of her neck.

Rolling to the side, Tristan reached for Cariad's hand, twining his fingers through hers tightly. His kissed her lowered eyelids, each in turn, tasting the salt on her skin. He pressed his forehead to hers, listening as her breathing slowed to normal, cooling the sweat at the hollow of his throat. "_I love you_," he murmured, the words sliding past his lips with unexpected ease. He brushed the damp hair away from the face, smiling softly when she opened her eyes.

"_I love you_," she repeated, something at once safe and lost swimming in her gaze. She willed away the stinging ache between her legs. Even now, her stomach fluttered when his hand skimmed down her side, trailing a path from her arm to her ribs and over her hip. He pulled the heavy wool blanket from the foot of the bed and spread it over them, trapping the heat of their lovemaking.

Warm and content, Cariad tugged her lover close. Tristan put his arms around her easily, cradling her head against the curve of his neck. He tangled his fingers in her hair, and wondered at the sensation of a second heartbeat fluttering against his skin.


	11. Ghosts, Part I

**SEMPER LIBER**

Summary: A dying man's final request sends a young woman to a new life at Badon Hill. TristanOC.

Disclaimer & Author's Note: I like to think that Malory would have his legends of King Arthur belong to the ages, but I cannot lay claim to them nor to those responsible for the 2004 film by the same name. Thank you for reading, and enjoy!

Chapter 11: Ghosts, Part I

Dawn crept across the floor, its bruised grey draping across the sleeping companions like a soft blanket. Tristan woke first, momentarily disoriented by the closeness of another human being. He rose a short while later and gathered his clothes. Cariad woke only long enough to receive his kiss before he left.

Tristan jogged down the stairs from the knights' quarters. He stole an apple from the kitchens before collecting his horse and setting out across the snow. There was little wind to speak of, and fewer clouds. The sun rose slowly.

He guided his stallion through the weak sunlight. The horse picked its own path through the knee-deep snow, stepping carefully around the partially hidden underbrush. A sparse stand of trees separated the walls of the fortress from the graveyard.

Swords and axes rose from the snow, standing tall and lonely despite their number. Tristan's contemporaries were only a small percentage of the men whose bodies were interred here. Generations of Sarmatian bloodlines were severed and ended here, husbands and sons never to return.

Tristan pulled his horse up at Percival's grave and dismounted. The horse wandered away, seeking out a mound whose guardian sword had fallen years before. Tristan had long since accepted the animal's habit, thinking it not so different from his brothers' and his own.

Tristan laid a hand on the hilt of his cousin's sword, a greeting. It seemed Percival had been gone longer than these swift weeks. In that short time, Tristan had discovered the zenith and nadir of his own emotions, and hoped never to experienced the latter again.

"_You a__re free, cousin_," he said.

He fingered a loose leather on the sword's grip, then whistled to his horse. The animal lumbered back slowly. Tristan laid a hand on the stallion's shoulder. He traveled back to the fortress on foot, stretching his legs beside his horse's and drinking in the new day.

-

Galahad woke from one nightmare into another. Percival watched him still, over his shoulder as when they had been boys. Shaking off the cold sight of the dead, Galahad dressed quickly and turned to leave, almost convinced that he could shut the other boy in his room and out of his mind for the rest of the day. Percival held closed the door.

"Son of a whore," he muttered, scrubbing a hand over his mouth.

Galahad went to the trunk at the end of his bed, slipping the catches open with practiced fingers. He pawed through his shirts and belts. At the bottom of the chest, dusted with age, there lay a thin roll of good paper, covered in Arthur's privileged letters. The wax tablet below the paper was dry and useless after all these years. Galahad tucked the roll of paper into his vest and left the tablet.

The first two years had not been so bad, once he had gone used to his surroundings. Together with Percival and Gawain's traveling companion, Pelleas, Galahad had spent those years learning his letters under Arthur's tutelage. They had been too young to wield swords, and Arthur would not have them waste their time on futile efforts. Arthur had only been eighteen himself, but that had been twice the age of the Pelleas. Arthur's Roman contemporaries had not approved of the lessons and had teased the boys mercilessly in their commander's absence.

Galahad found his friend in the stables, rubbing oil into his horse's martingale. The younger man bit his tongue, holding back the urge to make fun. The martingale was clean and gleaming, and possibly in danger of wearing through at Gawain's attentions. He cleared his throat.

Gawain looked up, squinting against the weak morning sunlight that poured through the open doorway. "Yes?"

Galahad crossed the arena swiftly, Percival's insistent presence shadowing him. He rolled his shoulders unconsciously, brushing off the dead man. He stood before Gawain and held out the small roll of papers. "These are Arthur's," he said quickly. "Mine."

Gawain accepted the scroll curiously. "What is this?"

"Arthur taught us to read and write with these," he offered. "What's left of them anyway. There's some blank space in the margins."

Gawain frowned. "Has there been any use in it?" he asked.

"Not really." Galahad chewed absently at his thumb. "But Kay said you wanted to learn."

"I do," Gawain admitted. He spared his fellow a grateful smile, dutifully hiding his embarrassment at being offered help by the younger man. "Thank you."

Percival wandered away in smug, self-satisfied silence. Galahad rubbed at the back of his neck, chasing away the chill. "The weather is nice," he put forward. "I am going to take the lad out for some exercise." The grey bobbed its head eagerly, as if he had been attending to the entire conversation.

"I will go with you," Gawain said, standing. He thought they could all use a little fresh air and sunlight, frail though it was. There were too many ghosts cooped up inside the walls, and hardly enough space for the rest of them.

-

Four kittens were barely enough to keep the little ones' attention, but Dagonet did not mind. He had volunteered to watch six of the children while Vanora rested and Bors chased hart with Kay in lieu of worry.

There was very little of value left in the kitchens, as snow had barred the merchants' paths for the better part of the month since the first storm of winter had followed the girl to Badon Hill. The eldest were in the scullery now, making use of what was left in preparation for dinner. Another night of over softened potatoes and slightly burned bread did not bother him much, so long as they were blessed with food. It did not take much to keep the stoic knight in his sedentary spirits. He had decided long ago, and wisely, he thought, to trust in Arthur and in the life he had been dealt. The philosophy had served him well.

"Hey, now," Dagonet murmured, pulling the fourth, eight-year-old Gilly, from one of the tortured kittens. He lifted the kitten and placed it carefully in the boy's hands. "Gentle."

"I cannot imagine how she manages," Cariad said absently. She stroked the tousled brown curls of number seven where he slept on his belly on the hay. The child mumbled and shook his head, but did not wake. In her lap, the youngest of them, not much more than one year, dozed fitfully. The other three scrambled in the space between the girl and the gentle knight, waving wisps of hay at the kittens.

The children reminded him sorely of his own offspring, a girl and a boy, the oldest less than four years when he had been summoned away from his home and the young wife he had been reluctant to take in the first place. He loved her dearly, and still did, but had never been able to relieve himself of the guilt that came with marrying her, spoiling her for the second-born sons of his village and damning her to a life solitude. The boy would be nearly thirteen now, almost old enough to care for his mother, but Dagonet had very little hope that his son remained at his mother's side. He would be in Thrace or Galatia, or any number of foreign lands Dagonet had heard whispers of from the few men who returned. He had never allowed himself to entertain the thought that the boy might be brought to Britain. The endeavor was too painful.

The life Dagonet had left behind had been half-lived, half-full. Despite his misgivings about his wife's safety, and his sweet little girl, he had been given the opportunity to love and have life before Rome called him away from everything he knew. He did dare to hope this: that his daughter would marry an understanding man whose would take her mother in as well, kind enough to give to his people what he had not been forced to give to Rome. Sometimes he dreamt of them, gold-haired and shining and happy on the green plains of his homeland.

"She loves them," he said.

Cariad glanced up. "Yes. Of course."

Dagonet did not need to ask who had put that blissful sorrow in her eyes. He would never express his surprise at her choice, though he understood Tristan's all too well. There was nothing so unfair of silent knight as to take the girl in as his own, and nothing he could do otherwise.

-

The knights were in relatively good spirits, celebrating the brief winter sunlight with drink and easy camaraderie. Bors's eldest ate with them in the dining hall, away from the raucous carryings on of the Roman soldiers and their British whores. Number three, a nine-year-old boy, was throwing small bits of lumpy potato at his older sisters.

"Stop it!" the eldest snapped. Despite her sharp tone, the girl's skittish demeanor was a mystery to both her parents, and her scolding had absolutely no effect on her sibling. Under her reproachful glare, the second snatched up the well-aimed missile and ate it herself. The eldest slapped her hand.

"Girls," Dagonet warned quietly. He tapped the boy on the back of the head. "Eat your meal."

At the other end of the table, Lancelot leaned on his elbow and leered at their third female companion. "You are in a good mood," he teased.

Tristan's low growl drowned under Gawain's protest. "What have I told you about minding your own business, Lancelot?" he said sharply.

Slapping Gawain lightly on the chest, Cariad answered calmly, "I am." Squeezed between Tristan and Gawain on the narrow bench, she felt quite safe kicking Lancelot swiftly in the shin.

The dark knight winced before he could stop himself. "You," he said, glowering at her, "are a brat."

She nearly choked on her bread. "Cad," she countered breathlessly.

Gawain clapped her soundly on the back. "Easy there, little one."

"Stop it, I said!" The eldest's high-pitched squeak seemed to split the conversation down the center of the table.

Cariad popped a last bit of slightly burned bread into her mouth and stood. "Take what you can," she said, pulling the boy up from his seat. He hurriedly grabbed a handful of potatoes. She raised her brow at the girls. "Up."

Dagonet hid a chuckle and rose to help. He lifted the squirming boy easily away from the table and set off in the direction of the children's home. "You will be good for your mother," he ordered.

Cariad slipped her arms through the girls'. "Good night," she called over her shoulder. Dagonet nodded his leave-taking as well.

"Not your girl, eh?" Lancelot said slyly, luring Tristan's gaze away from their departing friends.

Tristan furrowed his brow. "She does not belong to anyone."

"Right," Lancelot laughed, watching the girl depart, her thin frame swaying between Vanora's daughters', the three of them heads shorter than Dagonet and his cargo. "I never thought you would take to a pretty little girl such as her." He glanced back at Tristan, but the other man steadfastly refused to take the bait.

Gawain glowered at Lancelot over the rim of his drink. "Lancelot," he warned.

Lancelot dismissed Gawain with a roll of his eyes. "She seems too sweet for your tastes."

Tristan met Lancelot's gaze, hiding his irritation behind a veil of casual boredom. He shrugged and took another bite of rare hart, licking the juices off his fingers insidiously.

"You are an ass," Gawain declared, stabbing his knife into the table. Fixing Lancelot with an angry stare, he pulled the blade free and stalked off in the direction of the stables.

When Lancelot spoke again, there was something profoundly poignant behind the lewd expression in his eye. "No Roman will dare touch her now."

Draining his ale, Tristan stood from the table. He set the mug down with tightly clenched fingers. "Leave it, Lancelot."

Sighing, Lancelot watched the other man walk away. He caught Galahad staring, but the younger knight looked down hastily at his plate. Too pensive for company, Lancelot left the hall in search of starlight and sleep.


	12. Ghosts, Part II

**SEMPER LIBER**

Summary: A dying man's final request sends a young woman to a new life at Badon Hill. TristanOC.

Disclaimer & Author's Note: I like to think that Malory would have his legends of King Arthur belong to the ages, but I cannot lay claim to them nor to those responsible for the 2004 film by the same name. Thank you for reading, and enjoy!

A/N#2: Clues as to time's passage can be found in the chapter, but for those who cannot be bothered to pay that close attention: this chapter begins three months and ends four months after Cariad's arrival. Let me know what you think!

Chapter 12: Ghosts, Part II

It was not until one bloody night, nearly three months after she had arrived at Badon Hill, that Cariad felt like she was belonged. Home came in the form of another woman's infant, gory and screaming, quintessentially alive. The midwife shoved Cariad backwards with one deceptively strong shoulder, depositing the newborn boy into its mother's arms and away from Cariad's wide, fascinated stare.

"Hello, my baby boy," Vanora whispered, her voice hoarse with exhaustion.

Cariad was not aware of her tears until her vision blurred. When the midwife moved aside, Cariad sat hesitantly at the edge of the bed. "He's beautiful," she breathed.

Vanora bent her head to her son's and smiled. "Yes, he is."

The midwife returned with a bowl of warm water. She patted the young woman lightly on the hand and then pushed her out of the way. "It will be your turn soon enough," the older woman said knowingly. Cariad froze, hands hung awkwardly at her sides.

Vanora swallowed a laugh, her body aching as she did so. "Do not scare the girl," she said to the midwife. "I've become quite fond of her company." Satisfied and weary, Vanora closed her eyes.

The midwife swaddled the newborn. "Here, make yourself useful," she said, placing the infant easily into Cariad's arms.

"But…"

The midwife slapped the girl lightly on the cheek. "No," she said sternly. After a moment, she pointed to a chair near the hearth. "You may sit." She watched Cariad's progress across the room and the stiff, careful way she sat. "It's a baby, child. Just don't drop it and you will be fine."

Cariad lifted her head and watched the midwife owlishly. The older woman tended to Vanora without a word or question, her measured silence a welcome presence in the room. Cariad sighed softly, sleep tugging at her eyelids. "You look like your mother," she said to the resting baby. "And I daresay you yell like her, too."

Waking with a start some time later, Cariad felt the hot spark of panic shoot through her veins. Her arms were empty and somewhere nearby, a child was crying. She stood and opened her mouth in a shout that never passed her lips.

"Thank the gods, you are awake!" exclaimed the eldest. She grabbed Cariad's hand and dragged her into the next room. There was Bors's own little refugee camp, five cots for the eight older children, most of them awake and grumpy as the morning came over their tousled heads. The eleven-year-old lifted her three-year-old brother easily and shoved him into Cariad's arms. "He wants you," she insisted.

Cariad took the boy and glanced over her shoulder. The newborn was sleeping, a miracle, next to Vanora in her bed. She did not think Vanora had woken during the night, and if she had, there was no sign. She laid her head against the top of the boy's and took number five, a girl of seven, by the hand. "Who wants breakfast?" she asked.

The eldest had arranged the remainder of her siblings at a crowded table in the middle of the kitchen, save for the one-year-old, who clung with chubby hands to his ten-year-old sister's fiery hair. Cariad helped the little girl onto the bench with one awkward hand before helping the eldest distribute plates of shredded wheat topped with lukewarm goat's milk. She fed the three-year-old standing up against the kitchen counter, eating little herself.

A miniature war broke out between the third and fourth, boys separated by only a year. Gilly, eight, had gone on the offensive with a wooden spoon, and the potato-hurling gremlin from the tavern two months ago countered with soppy shredded wheat.

"Stop it!" Cariad and the eldest shouted in unison.

"You tell them to come in here and try that nonsense!" Vanora hollered from the next room.

"We're fine!" Cariad called back. The eldest rolled her eyes. "Don't get up!"

Vanora shuffled into the room short moments later. "You all behave!" she barked. She smiled sardonically at Cariad and her eldest two daughters. "You tried, my wonderful girls." To the rest of them she said, "You will eat and you will do so quietly, and then you will find something useful to do outside of the house for the rest of the day." She glanced out the window at the pale grey sky. "The weather is fine." To herself she murmured, "They will come home today."

-

"If you throw that, I will kill you."

Ignoring Gawain, Galahad tossed the snowball in his bare hand and caught it up again. He pursed his lips and glanced sidelong at Tristan.

"I will kill you slowly," Tristan grumbled. Sparing Galahad a scathing glance, Tristan rode ahead, angling his horse alongside Arthur's.

"We will reach the fort by the evening," Arthur said, staring straight ahead.

Tristan nodded silently. There was nothing to the landscape before them, an endless expanse of pale grey snow, piled in high drifts and set with moguls of melting ice.

The knights and their commander had left Badon Hill more than ten days before with the task of securing provisions for the fort. Merchants had been largely unable – or unwilling – to make the treacherous journey from village to village with their wares. The dangerous open plains between the winter farmers and Badon Hill seemed to evanesce with woads, the blue natives as tormented by hunger as the rest of the land.

Whistling low in his throat, Tristan scanned the icy skies. The hawk appeared some long minutes later. She circled the air above the caravan – Arthur, his seven knights, one carriage, and two over burdened pack ponies – and did not feign to join them. She spun away with a scream. Tristan thought he saw some poor creature in the hawk's talons – a shrew, perhaps – and pardoned her insolence. She did not belong to him, anyway.

Arthur turned briefly to face the silent knight. "Tristan."

Tristan acknowledged his commander with a slight tilt of his head.

"Our friend never complains," Arthur began. "Is she happy here?"

Shrugging, Tristan answered, "I think so. She enjoys being useful."

Arthur smiled weakly into the afternoon sun. "She has become close with Vanora, I think."

Tristan did not answer. His thoughts wandered briefly in that direction, to all the things that were becoming familiar and dear to him: the fresh scent of lilac and river water, the easy way she smiled, even at Lancelot, her knowing absence, her hiding places.

"She is your good friend, as well," Arthur said, carefully unassuming.

"She is," Tristan answered.

"You of all our comrades have no need for my blessing," Arthur said.

Smirking, Tristan kept his keen eyes straight in front of him. "I love her," he said, so softly that the still air nearly took the words away.

Arthur felt something akin to happiness in his chest at the scout's confession, thinking he had never heard the man say so much with so few words and no sharp eye to accompany them. He fed the sensation with thoughts of a hot meal made of fresh provisions and the respite that would follow for all of them at the end of the long journey.

-

Bors's brood flew about the tavern, hands clasped and hair lit up like sparklers in the sconces. He held his youngest in one arm and raised a toast to his lover. Vanora smiled happily in the light of the waxing moon. The celebration was born of a Sarmatian tradition. The birth of a new child was publicly rejoiced only after the moon had come full cycle from the night of the child's birth in order to make sure of the infant's health and vitality. Now, Vanora danced with her eldest daughter, spinning in joyous circles while the tavern's other patrons made way.

Gawain could not keep his mirth to himself, and Galahad's emotions were even more vibrant. Life was something they could all celebrate. The knights all considered Bors's family their own, though they would never put it in so many words. They were slaves to fate, and most of them loveless, but they had secreted away a tribe of their own, unspoken and nearly as close as true flesh and blood.

Tristan kept company with Dagonet, out of the way of the dancers and their lively, boisterous music. He drank his toast to the child and let himself relax as he so rarely did. It was not long after the toast that Galahad rose from the table and dragged Cariad away from Lancelot, who found another partner without much trouble, though neither Vanora nor Bors was particularly happy with his choice.

Galahad seemed to have been made for this sort of unfettered dancing, more clumsy than graceful but completely comfortable in his own body. Cariad had become his favorite dancing partner, as young and unassuming as himself when it came to making a fool of herself for the sake of her own amusement.

"Galahad!" Cariad laughed over the music and the heads of the younger children as they cavorted around them. She let the young knight lead her in a half-skipping step across the tavern floor. She was vaguely nauseous and regretted partaking in the ale with the rest of them, despite the happy reason. She grinned at his flushed face and threw her arms around his neck with an uncharacteristic giggle.

Tristan watched them as he had many times over the past four months, less and less confused by the affection that sprung up in him at her happiness. She had stolen so many moments of his winter, from the dark tears and quick temper that had drawn him to her in the first place to the three months now that he had called her his lover. Even now there was a change in her, since they had returned from their long mission four weeks prior. She belonged, and not just with him.

The world was spinning, cold air and hot torches and happy laughter. Cariad's boots scraped across the tavern stones. She hid her loose grin in Galahad's shoulder to get away from the noise and light. He sang off-key, held her close with sweat-dampened palms, and spun them until she was sure she would be sick. She gripped his shoulders tightly and pushed him back.

"Sorry!" Galahad laughed drunkenly. He put his hands on her waist to straighten her out, and for a moment he thought it was his hands that had missed their mark, and not her feet. Cariad fell to her knees as he scrambled to catch her, grasping hastily at her elbow as she hit the ground.

Cariad yelped, a laugh and a cry at once. She reached up for Galahad's hand. He pulled suddenly away, arcing backwards into the darkness that appeared at the edges of her vision. She heard her name issue from somewhere, a familiar sound from a familiar tongue. Shaking, she pressed her hands flat on the ground on either side of her as she slid from her knees to her seat. "I am all right," she muttered, but she did not know why she spoke.

It was Tristan there, swimming in and out of the music, and Gawain and Arthur as well, taking up all the air with their worried faces. Her name again, flickering dark and light like her vision, twisting and dizzy. She felt a strong hand close around her wrist and pull it from her lap, where it seemed to have flown of its own volition. Tristan's hand, turning hers over in front of them, covered in bright red blood.


	13. Ache

**SEMPER LIBER**

Summary: A dying man's final request sends a young woman to a new life at Badon Hill. TristanOC.

Disclaimer & Author's Note: I like to think that Malory would have his legends of King Arthur belong to the ages, but I cannot lay claim to them nor to those responsible for the 2004 film by the same name. Thank you for reading, and enjoy!

A/N#2: Not a clue. Help me out here.

Chapter 13: Ache

It was a cold, draining nightmare. Her hair clung dark and damp to her face, stuck to her parted lips. A pair of hands with cool, gentle fingers slipped beneath her head and pulled her hair back to the nape of her neck. A dull ache twisted through her abdomen. She felt as though she was being dragged underwater, weighted down by the wet, heavy flow between her legs. Sweat covered her brow beneath that comforting hand. Despite all of this, there was very little pain.

"Fill the bath. Warm water, not too hot."

"Come, my wonderful girl."

Those hands, lifting her from the narrow mattress, peeling her damp shift from her skin and over her head. Her hair caught in the dress, tangled with the thin fabric. She barely registered the blood on her hand as those careful fingers pulled her arms through the sleeves. She did not have the prescience of mind to be embarrassed.

"Can you stand?"

A strong, unfamiliar arm wrapped across her naked back. She discovered her knees for a few shaky steps before the warm water circled her waist. These hard, sure hands guided her firmly until the water rose to her shivering shoulders.

"Witch hazel." A shuffling of fabric. "Save what you can. Dispose of the rest."

The dry hand slapped lightly at her cheek. She blinked once. Her eyes drooped closed, and the hand slapped her again.

"Wake up."

The cool, comforting hands returned. A rush of warm water sluiced over her head, soaking her hair and running into her eyes. The scent of lilac rose from the fingers that combed through her hair and rubbed gently at the back of her neck.

"I will return shortly. Keep her still."

The door groaned, and his voice drifted through.

"It is immodest. You will stay out."

Her hands floated up through the warm, oily water. She lifted them to the edge of the tub, curling her fingers around the edges as a reflex.

"No, no."

The cool hands grasped her left, kneading her palm gently. She barely registered the pale streaks of blood that the caress washed away. She sighed, drawing the heavy air down through her aching chest. The hands gripped her shoulders, then drew away.

"Tristan, get out. She is resting."

Boots scraped against the floor. "No."

"Tristan, enough," came a second male voice.

The heavy boots left, and she closed her eyes. The water cooled.

-

Bors and Dagonet herded the distressed brood back to the house. After a moment, Kay joined them, half-dragging Galahad by the collar. "She should not have been dancing," the youngest of them said blankly. "I should not have made her dance."

"It is not your fault," Kay muttered. "Just shut up."

Outside the infirmary, Gawain took Tristan's hand in a vice-like grip and hauled him to the nearest water pail. He thrust the scout's hand into the freezing water and held it there while the other man fought him. "Wash it off!" Gawain bit out.

Tristan forced Gawain off him with a sharp jab of his elbow to the other's gut. He made for the infirmary door. Wrapping both arms around his friend's chest, Gawain dragged him backwards once more. "Get off!" Tristan growled fiercely.

"Men!" Arthur barked.

Tristan escaped Gawain's grasp and drew his knife. "Get off," he repeated, pointing the blade at his friend.

Arthur thrust his arm between them. "Tristan!" He took the scout's wrist in his iron grasp and twisted it until the knife angled away from Gawain, harmless.

When Arthur released his hand, Tristan thrust the blade flat against Gawain's breast and stalked away. Gawain's hand rose automatically, catching the knife as it fell towards the ground. He made to follow Tristan, but paused at Arthur's warning hand.

Arthur looked to Lancelot, then tossed his head in the direction of Tristan's retreating form. To Gawain he said, "Leave him be."

-

Vanora leaned over the younger woman's cot. "Cariad." She laid her hand across her friend's cooling brow. "Come back, my wonderful girl."

Blinking, Cariad rose up slowly towards consciousness. Her throat was the thick with the feverish ache of sleep.

Vanora lifted the girl's head with one hand and raised a glass of water to her lips with the other. Cariad choked when she tried to swallow, but reached for the glass when Vanora tried to pull it away. "How do you feel?" she asked, hardly able to guess. She had known the greatest physical pain a woman could bear, but she could not fathom this devastation.

Cariad swallowed. The cool water hit her like a punch in the gut. Shivering slightly, she relinquished the glass. "I… what has happened?" Her vision blurred as she tried to follow the redhead's careful movements.

Turning back slowly, Vanora addressed the girl's question carefully. "You were with child," she said, brushing her fingertips through the dark hair at her friend's temple. "You have miscarried. You will be fine," Vanora added as tears filled her vision.

"I do not understand," Cariad murmured, confused by the dark shine in her friend's eyes.

Leaning down, Vanora kissed her gently on the forehead. "I know." She held Cariad's face between her palms, trying to focus the girl's attention. "When was the last time you bled?"

Cariad closed her eyes wearily. "No."

Vanora ran her thumb over Cariad's trembling chin. "You are all right," she assured her. "You will be all right."

"I…" Cariad tried to find the answer to Vanora's question. "Not since… the first time," she trailed off. She tried to turn her face away. She was near to sleep, Vanora's easy hand as her pillow, when the other woman spoke again.

"Three cycles?" she asked quietly.

Cariad thought she might be ill. She could barely move, and felt she would suffocate if she could not keep her sickness down. She moaned, a low, keening sound the likes of which Vanora had never heard issued from the girl's lips. "Tristan."

-

Tristan came back around on his own, an hour later, to find only Arthur still lingering in the alcove outside the infirmary. Their fellows had disappeared into the night. The celebration had ended in tragedy, and there was no company that would do. When the midwife left, it was Arthur who hauled Tristan back through the doorway with a harsh word, and Arthur who waited with him in the darkness. His green gaze burned into the side of the scout's now passive face when the midwife returned, alarmed and relieved that his fellow did not attempt a second ambush.

"You may come in now."

Tristan stumbled to his feet and pushed rudely past the midwife. Arthur took the old woman's steady hand between his own. "I am sorry. Thank you."

"She needs rest," the woman said. "You will not keep her long."

"No," Arthur assured her.

Tristan towered over the cot, staring blankly down at the pale shade of the girl who had given his life color. "Will she live?" he asked, eyes dull and lifeless. He did not dare touch her.

"Of course," Vanora said hastily. She glanced back at Arthur and the midwife. Hesitantly, she drew Tristan down to take her place on the narrow mattress. She placed Tristan's hand on Cariad's. "She will be better now that you are here," she soothed. Her words had little effect on the silent knight's dead-eyed misery.

Tristan stared at Cariad's abdomen, covered with a thick wool blanket, then at her drained face. "She did not tell me," he said finally.

"I do not think she knew," Vanora said, pulling her hand back just as she meant to lay it on Tristan's shoulder. His muscles tightened, and she thought he felt the burn of the unwanted touch regardless.

"Leave," he said, voice low.

Vanora cast a worried glance at Arthur and the midwife. "Perhaps it would be best…"

"Leave!" Tristan shouted, body tense with unreleased anger. He did not turn from the bed. His eyes did not leave Cariad's face.

"This will not do," the midwife said, pushing Vanora out of the way.

Arthur took the old woman gently by the arm. "Lady, please," he implored. His green eyes bored pity into hers, and she nodded, tight-lipped and visibly displeased. "I will post a guard to fetch you if you are needed, and see that you are paid extra for your services and your kindness."

The midwife left. Vanora followed shortly after, sparing the lovers a sorrowful gaze. She laid her hand gratefully on Arthur's as she went.

"Leave," said Tristan for the third time. "Now."

Battling his own despair, Arthur left.

-

Cariad woke to his ragged breath on her cheek. Tucked tightly beneath a thick wool blanket, she could hardly move, though she did not know if there was any purpose to it. The fringe of his hair brushed against her temple, his head bent close in the desperate need for nearness that so terrified her. Stinging, unexpected tears fell from the corner of her eyes and slid down her cheeks.

"Tristan," she breathed.

Tristan raised his head immediately, his face twisted in confusion and alarm. He had never wanted words so badly as he wanted them now. There was nothing to say. He brushed her tears away with his thumbs. Her skin was cold, and it burned beneath his fingertips.

"I am sorry," she cried.

Tristan shook his head. "You… have done nothing wrong," he uttered with difficulty. He bent his head to kiss her carefully on the mouth, as if afraid he might hurt her.

Cariad struggled beneath the blanket, itching to touch him and to get away. Tristan freed her with careful fingers. He drew her up against him, one hand spread wide across her lower back, where the ache still sang in her muscles. He curled his other hand around the back of her head, tangling his fingers in her hair and pulling her close. She did not have the strength to resist him.

Closing his eyes, Tristan listened closely for the hitching sound of her breath. She shook violently against him, a primal agony stealing the air from her chest. "_Please_," she cried. He did not know what she asked for.

"_You are all right_," he promised weakly. He was not sure she would be capable of resurfacing from this pain. Broken bones and flesh wounds were nothing to a broken heart, and where physical injuries scarred, the heart never healed from the poisons that bled through it. Heartbreak fractured everything that came after, forcing the good into the spaces between those living grievances. "_It is not your fault. You are all right._"

"_No_," she whispered. Her lips were wet with tears where they brushed his neck.

Tristan pulled away suddenly, holding her by the arms as he assessed her appearance. The blanket pooled around her waist, and he tore it away thoughtlessly. From her narrow, shaking shoulders to her bare calves, there was nothing but thin, white cloth, plain and clean. She gasped, then choked on the sound. She braced herself with a hand on his shoulder, meeting his eye with helpless terror.

"Cariad," he pleaded, ashamed by the desperation in his own voice. He rubbed her back tentatively, easing away the broken cry. "_Lie down_," he instructed.

"_Tired_," she murmured, eyes glazing over as she stared beyond his face at the wall.

"_I know_," Tristan said. "_Lie down._"

Cariad slumped back against the mattress, bone-weary. "_I am sorry._"

Tristan guided her gently, pulling the blanket up to her shoulders. For a time, he could do nothing but brush her hair back from her face, worrying over this little care until his fingers felt numb. She blinked up at him, as if confused. "Tristan?"

"_Shall I stay?_" he asked, masking his heartbreak with his words.

Cariad nodded sleepily. "_Please._"

Tristan lay down, putting his arms around her with care. She would not break, he knew, but there was no telling his body that. He hid his face against the back of her shoulder. He pressed one hand tentatively against her abdomen. "_I love you_," he whispered against her skin. Lips moving silently he added, "_You will not leave me_."


	14. Healing

**SEMPER LIBER**

Summary: A dying man's final request sends a young woman to a new life at Badon Hill. TristanOC.

Disclaimer & Author's Note: I like to think that Malory would have his legends of King Arthur belong to the ages, but I cannot lay claim to them nor to those responsible for the 2004 film by the same name. Thank you for reading, and enjoy!

A/N#2: The song is on anachronistic loan from Gunn McKee. As for the rest, I had no idea what to write, so I just wrote. I hope it works for you!

Chapter 14: Healing

The sunshine that followed in the days after was an affront to waking eyes. There was an emptiness inside her that didn't seem possible, given that she had not known she had been filled. She escaped Gawain's attention with some difficulty, curling herself in the loft among the shadows and the growing kittens. None other bothered to disturb her mourning.

Cariad rolled onto her back, twisting her fingers in the hay with unfettered distraction. Dust danced down from the oxeye window. One of the kittens, nearly four months old now, leapt at the wisps of hair disturbed by her hands. Another crawled onto her shoulder, its tail waving in the air in awkward ballast. It padded softly down her chest and curled on her stomach, its warm belly pressed against her own.

Wrestling absently with the kitten at play near her hand, Cariad closed her eyes and pretended she slept.

-

The power and the means were his. He could make the empty rooms a home, order softer quilts and new dresses, give her everything he had given Vanora not one year into their service. He could read her father's letter like an ultimatum. He could make her a princess, but he could not force her happiness.

This disappointment was, admittedly, nothing compared to the guilt that came over him at the misfortunes of his men. There was nothing he could have done to save Cariad from this pain, and nothing he could do now to repair the injury. She mattered, and was his responsibility on top of that, but there was no danger before her like the sharp edge of a sword or the pierce of an arrowhead.

He would make her comfortable, and keep her in his services as he had these past months. She was strong and stubborn and harder now than ever before. Now, she held a damaged shield, a woman's, no doubt, but something tragic to stand up behind nonetheless.

"She cannot stay here with us any longer," Arthur said, turning to Tristan.

Tristan leaned against the wall by the door, arms crossed and chin tucked to his chest. "No," he said, staring blankly at his boots.

Arthur signed the order and tapped his stylus against his writing table. "She would have been too far from help had it happened here," he explained, though his words were not necessary, nor heard.

"No," Tristan repeated.

Arthur folded the paper and sealed it. "You may keep whichever room you choose. I would leave her in your charge now, if you will have her."

Tristan chewed absently at his fingernail. "Yes."

-

"You will leave her down here by herself?" Gawain asked incredulously.

Tristan took a sip of ale. "She does not want company."

"Like hell she doesn't."

"Shut up, both of you!" Galahad shouted, slamming his fist into the table. He abandoned his untouched meal and left, petulant anger hovering in his wake.

Gawain leaned across the table. "What is your problem, Tristan?" he hissed. "If you cannot love her now, you do not deserve her."

Tristan raised his brow, finally meeting his friend's eye. "You do not know her like I do." He drained his ale and lifted Galahad's untouched plate. "Good night."

He found her kneeling on the bed, legs curled beneath her, dressed in a thin shift that offered no protection from the cold. She turned slowly from the window when he entered. For a moment, a smile ghosted across her lips, and for the first time in three weeks, it reached her eyes.

"You will eat," Tristan said.

"Of course," she answered, rising gracefully. She took the plate from his hand and passed into the front room. The small hearth there gave off a comforting heat. She sat at the table without another word and began to eat, warming her bare feet near the grate.

"Are you cold?" Tristan asked, watching her from the doorway.

Cariad had disappeared somewhere in the flickering flame, her dark eyes lit with its heat. "What?" she asked absently.

"Are you cold?" he repeated. She did not shiver, but she was nearly as pale as her shift, and he could not imagine did not feel the chill down to her bones.

Cariad swallowed a meager bite of bread. "Yes."

Tristan ducked into the back room and grabbed a wool blanket off the bed. He draped it around her shoulders as she ate. It took all his will power not to show his anger when she flinched. He pulled away.

Her quick grip almost startled him. Cariad wrapped her freezing fingers around his wrist and held his hand against her shoulder. She turned her head and kissed the knuckle of his thumb. She sighed and let him go. Tristan took up the seat across from hers at the small table.

"Would you have been happy?" Cariad asked, meeting his eye boldly.

Tristan thought for a moment. "I think so, yes," he answered honestly. He watched, mesmerized by the delicate dance of her hands, as she finished her meal in silence. "And you?" he asked when she was done.

"I think so, yes," she answered, almost smiling. She bit her lip and refused to yield to the tears that stung at the back of her eyes.

"And what if the child was left with no father?"

Cariad's head shot up. "What do you mean?" she asked. Panic shot through her like cold fire.

Tristan leveled his gaze at her. "If I die."

She met his challenge. "You will not die." She stood and kissed each of his cheeks in turn, framing his face with delicate fingers. She brushed her lips across his forehead. She combed his hair back from his face, looking upon it as if for the first time. "Why do you say such things?"

Turning his face up, Tristan answered, "We will all die some day."

Cariad closed her eyes. "And there will be nothing for it," she said, resigned, "if you quit life now. It is nothing special to be sure of death."

"I did not care enough for life to speak of death before," Tristan said carefully.

"Oh." Cariad smiled softly. "Have I made you weak, then?"

Tristan fixed her with a hard glare. "How can you smile now? Would it please you to know you have made me soft?"

Cariad shook her head, but did not relinquish the gentle warmth that was slowly returning to her core. "No. But I do enjoy teasing you."

Frowning, Tristan removed her hands from his face. "What has gotten into you?" he asked, barely masking his concern.

Cariad face fell slightly. "I was hungry," she said. She kissed his mouth tenderly. "And I missed you."

Pulling her down onto his lap, Tristan returned her kiss with more vigor than he intended. She absolutely made him weak, and there were moments that his chest itched with hatred because of it. He barely knew himself when she was soft and yielding beneath him. Other times, when she matched his lingering, unspoken sadness with her acerbic wit, he felt he crashed against her like a stone wall, and that hardness was something he could relate to.

Either way, it was too late to let her go.

-

Spring came to Badon Hill. The nights were still damp and cold, but the longer days and melting streams did wonders for Cariad, lifting away the veil that came over her sometimes when she slept. Wrapped in the cloak Arthur had ordered made for her, she strolled across the fields south of the fortress, dragging her skirts carelessly through the mud. It felt good to have room to breathe, to feel the gentle spring wind tangling her hair. There was a sense of youthful freedom in it that she had missed since her father's death five months prior.

She walked without direction, hands curled into the edges of her cloak. Its lightweight wool was a luxury after a lifetime of heavy, second-rate cloth and hand-me-downs, not that she had ever minded. Tristan had called it a Roman cloak, though its color was closer to the hue of winter rowan. She liked it, despite his scowl.

The sky seemed to have opened up, and she turned her face to it. Around her, the gentle wind stirred the dry stalks of grass from the winter with the fresh green shoots. She tried to hear the sea, but having never heard it, she could only pretend. Her father had sung her songs of the sea, and for Cariad, the fabled black waves and the words were one and the same. She did not have the voice for singing, but she sang anyway, thinking herself alone except for the sky.

"_I walked alone in foggy dew, just me and my memories. A voice out seaward beckons through, a whistle of love for me, for me, a whistle of love for me.__"_

"You sound terrible."

"You are still a cad," she shot back, her hair blinding her as she faced the wind and the dark knight.

"Ah," Lancelot mused. "And yet, you love me."

Arthur grinned, guiding his horse alongside Lancelot's. "At least you are in agreement," he said wryly.

Cariad twisted her hair back and tucked it down the back of her cloak. Wrinkling her nose, she eyed the pair of roe tied to the harness of Arthur's stallion. "How long have you been out?" she asked.

"Since sunrise," Lancelot answered, squinting at the sun where it rose in the sky. "And you, lady?" he smirked.

"Since breakfast," Cariad quipped. "I suppose you are hungry for lunch, then?"

"We are," Arthur said. He reached down for Cariad's hand. "You can ride with me."

Cariad shook her head and took a step back. "I would prefer to walk." She smiled weakly at Arthur, narrowing her eyes against the wind. "Lancelot will have plenty of time to prepare your catch."

Lancelot scoffed. "You may have managed to train Bors and Kay…"

"That he will," Arthur interrupted with a laugh. Lancelot glared at his friend and commander. "We will see you back at the fort."

Cariad smiled politely at Arthur. She waited until her guardian had turned his horse towards the fort, then waved at Lancelot cheekily.

"Brat," he mouthed.

Grinning, Cariad lowered her hand and hid it back in the warmth of her cloak. As they rode away, she took up her father's song again. "_For ten days long our love grew strong__: s__he swore her 'love to thee.' Each night up high on __mountainside she'd whistle her love for me, for me, she'd whistle her love for me._" The sunlight touched her soul like a balm, persistent and warm and unobtrusive.


	15. Rain

**SEMPER LIBER**

Summary: A dying man's final request sends a young woman to a new life at Badon Hill. TristanOC.

Disclaimer & Author's Note: I like to think that Malory would have his legends of King Arthur belong to the ages, but I cannot lay claim to them nor to those responsible for the 2004 film by the same name. Thank you for reading, and enjoy!

Chapter 15: Rain

"You must call each other something," Cariad insisted. She wrung out one of Kay's shirts and tossed it into the straw basket by her side on the riverbank.

Next to her, the ten-year-old shook her head. "No." The redhead scrubbed one of her baby brother's blankets against a wooden washing rack.

Cariad flexed her chapped hands. Vanora's eldest, two of the three girls and more than five years older than the third, were never seen very far apart. They were near enough to twins to seem to have their own language. She supposed that if she spent every waking moment with a sister that close in age and appearance, she might not necessarily need a name for the other girl.

The skies opened up.

The eleven-year-old shrieked, grabbing up her basket. As the cold rain splashed down over Cariad's head and shoulders, she leapt to her feet, hastily packing away the knights' half-washed clothes. The younger sister just laughed.

"Come on, come on!" shouted the eldest through the roaring rain.

Cariad ducked her head uselessly against the onslaught. Cold water rolled off her hair and down the back of her dress, plastering it to her skin. She hurried the ten-year-old in front of her and followed the sisters at a clumsy run up the muddy bank. The girls waved their goodbyes upon reaching their home, then rushed into the warm shelter of their kitchen.

Shivering with the delightful cold and freshness of the storm, Cariad kept running.

-

The rain began the moment Tristan set foot outside of the stables. No sooner had he crossed the courtyard than the stones began to run with rivers of mud. Tristan walked easily through the narrow streets, his face tilted towards the sky. As a child, he would have been out of his clothes by now, screaming down the grassy beach towards the water in pursuit of his cousins and friends and brothers.

It was near enough to evening to justify disappearing into himself for a little while. Dinner would not come for at least two hours, and in the meanwhile, he thought, perhaps he would watch the storm rage out the window or doze for a while to its unique living melody.

The two-room suite was empty. Stalks of lilac hung drying over the board in the front room, their scent mixing with the smell of damp earth and stones that seemed to penetrate the country on the whole. There was half a loaf of bread on the board, a pitcher of water, and a small jar of honey secreted away from somewhere, some favor or sleight of hand to satisfy her sudden sweet tooth.

Tristan had been in the room no more than a few moments when the wooden door flew open and slammed shut. Turning, he watched with amusement as Cariad nearly stumbled through the doorway, tripping on the exhilaration of her escape from the storm. She dropped her basket and stared at him for a moment.

Then, Cariad began to laugh. "You look like a drowned rat!" she gasped, trying to catch her breath.

Tristan raised a brow at her. Her grey dress clung to her skin from shoulder to boots. Her hair hung in limp, dripping tangles down her back to her belt. Her skin was pale from the chill and flushed from her charge up from the riverbank. He smirked a little.

"Oh, quiet," Cariad laughed, wringing her hair out into wet puddles at her feet. She shook her hands off and planted them on her narrow hips. "What are you staring at?"

"Come here," Tristan said.

Cariad raised her chin slightly and bit back a smile. "Why?"

Motioning with his hand, Tristan repeated his command. "Come here."

"No." She shook her head, lips pursed around the teasing rejection. She took a deliberate step around him towards the kitchen board, the loose lace of one of her boots slapping against the stone floor.

Tristan reached out with animal-like speed and precision. He wrapped his hand around her elbow and swung her around. She yelped. "I said, 'Come here,'" he said a third time, voice dangerously low.

"No!" she laughed.

Tristan pulled her close, tangling his free hand in the hair at the base of her neck. He tipped her head back to watch the spark that had taken up in her eye. She was serenely quiet now, meeting his gaze like a tablet waiting to receive words, but he knew she still laughed at him, somewhere in that spark, hidden behind her lips.

Tristan kissed her, holding her damp and chill against him, and thought there might be something else he might do to the tune of the rain.

-

Rich pines and rowan lined the merchant road they traveled. Tristan did not mind days such as these, the short, damp hours of spring followed by the days of summer when the sun's path from horizon to horizon widened the sky until it almost matched the breadth above the steppes.

By his measure, they were almost ten leagues southwest of Badon Hill. He turned his horse and rode back towards the other knights, away from the far off but tempting smell of the Erin Sea. There was nothing along the road that spoke of woads, only the fresh green of midsummer and a blanket of faded pine needles beneath his horse's hooves.

"There's nothing to be seen between here and the crossroads," he said as he approached Arthur.

"Small favors," Arthur answered, his mouth set in a grim line. "Kay and Galahad have gone down the south road and report the same."

"It is a large country," Tristan muttered.

"As long as they are not targeting the merchant roads," Arthur said. "And they will not approach the coast."

Tristan agreed with a subtle nod of his head.

"We will take the road south through Hyrford, then follow the loop back north to the Wall." Arthur turned his stallion, spreading his message to the rest of his knights.

Gawain angled his horse alongside Tristan's with the deliberately obnoxious familiarity of a friend and brother. "Where do you suppose the blue devils are hiding?"

Glancing sidelong at his fellow, Tristan answered, "I do not know." Instinctively, he kept one eye on the trees around them, searching the thick branches for the deceptively straight shaft of an arrow or the dull gleam of an axe head.

"Perhaps they are enjoying the sunshine," Gawain mused.

Tristan spared Gawain an incredulous stare. Towards the head of the line, the youngest of them had his face tipped up towards the light streaming through the trees. "They would get along well with Galahad," he said dryly.

"Have you completely lost the ability to make conversation?" Gawain asked, grinning.

Tristan faced forward again, dutifully ignoring his tribesman. He had not, but his thoughts were better occupied elsewhere. Inside the fortress, there was no such life as that flourishing around them. The clip of his horse's hooves was more alive on the merchant road than on the dirt of the narrow arena or the poorly fit cobblestones. The air actually moved.

"Galahad has found himself a girl," Gawain mused, trying to draw Tristan out of his vigilant reverie. "Nearly as pretty as he is."

Smiling a little, Tristan caved. "Briton or Roman?"

Gawain scoffed. "Briton. The smith's girl. All sixteen years of her."

For six days, near to bliss as any of them could come in their invisible shackles, there were no ambushes, no blue shades, no blood. There was only the half-light of British sunshine, its sparkling glare floating down the creeks that flowed through the trees, and the luxurious breath of fresh air in their lungs.

-

"Where are you getting that?" Vanora asked, eyeing the small jar of honey in her friend's hand.

Cariad paused, her finger half-way to her mouth. "Jols gave it to me." Raising one delicate brow, she dared Vanora to challenge her.

"Jols," Vanora mused. "And where did Jols get fresh honeycomb?"

Cariad shrugged and popped her finger into her mouth. Leaning against the hearth in Vanora's kitchen, she peered into the oat mash cooking over the fire. She grinned up at her friend. "I do not know, nor do I care," she said smartly.

Vanora chuckled knowingly. "You have been here since November, and you have never wanted for sweets until three months ago. And you barely take anything else. You are too skinny." She watched the girl's face for any sign of comprehension.

"I have learned my lesson, Vanora," Cariad said to the half-smirk on her friend's lips. She sat at the table, rolling the jar of honey in her hands. "Do you suppose I have been punished enough?" she asked softly.

Vanora smeared a slice of dark bread with plum spread. She snatched the jar from Cariad's hand and put the plate of bread in front of her. "You have done nothing wrong and have had no punishment," she said firmly. "The gods decide who lives and dies." She paused, then pressed her next words firmly into the space between them. "Your mother's death was not your fault."

Cariad sighed and took a bite of rich bread. "You must not tell anyone," she finally said.

Vanora frowned. "Why ever not?"

"I do not want them to worry over me," Cariad answered.

"Stupid girl," Vanora said harshly. "You torture yourself by keeping it secret."

"No," Cariad argued vehemently, her eyes bright with conviction. "Galahad has barely forgiven himself, Gawain follows me like my own shadow if I so much as sneeze, and Tristan… has more pressing matters to think of than me."

"You are a sad company," Vanora said, rolling her eyes. "If any of what you say is true, they are all as stupid as you are." She patted Cariad's hand lightly, motioning towards the half-eaten bread in the other woman's hand. "Eat. It's a child, not a curse."

Cariad set down her bread and rubbed the heels of her hands against her eyes. "I will die if it happens again," she whispered.

"Smile, my wonderful girl," Vanora said, squeezing Cariad's hand encouragingly. "There is no happiness greater than motherhood. I promise you, nine times over."

-

Dagonet laid a broad hand on the black's forehead. The young horse bobbed its head, brushing its muzzle against the knight's shirt repeatedly. "Hey, lad. Hey, lad," Dagonet murmured. The horse snorted and leaned his face into the man's hand.

The horse nearly jumped out of the stall when Dagonet opened the door, his hand wrapped firmly around the stallion's halter. "_You will stand still_," Dagonet said quietly, slipping a rope through the loop beneath the horse's chin. He let the lead dangle to the floor.

Lifting the animal's right fore, Dagonet considered the quality of the hoof. The sole was healthy, and the long toe could be corrected easily enough by the farrier. He set the hoof down and ran his hands up the leg from cannon to knee to forearm. The horse was remarkably well formed, considering that he had not been bred for it, Dagonet assumed. In any case, the ragged, weary country girl that claimed him now could not have bought a horse such as this. From poll to croup, the horse was as near to perfect as any of those in Arthur's care.

The horse nipped Dagonet firmly on the shoulder, then greeted the soft footsteps in the aisle with a near scream. He pushed Dagonet aside in his effort to get to the girl, almost knocking them both to the ground in the process.

"Ryn," Cariad said sternly. "That was not nice." She grabbed up his lead and turned it over in her hand, as if considering a rare stone or piece of jewelry. At last, she looked up at Dagonet, who had watched the motion of her small hands with curious interest. "Do you suppose Arthur could use him?"

Dagonet answered her with a nearly blank face. "He is yours."

Cariad pursed her lips, then forced a smile. "He would be happier with something to do, I think. He is still young enough to train."

"You need him," Dagonet said softly.

Cariad smiled genuinely when the horse lipped at her hair with unbridled affection. "He will still be here." She brushed a patch of dirt off the horse's cheek and spoke into his eye, finding comfort there in the familiar layers of brown and black and purple. "I cannot give him the exercise he needs." She shrugged. She approached Dagonet with a few hurried steps and forced the rope into his hands. "Take him. Please."

Dagonet's hand closed around the lead automatically. "He is yours."

Cariad nodded, smiling past the tears in her eyes. "I know."

Dagonet nodded in understanding. "Come on, then," he said gently. He stepped around Cariad, leading the young horse easily out into the courtyard and towards the gates. "Let's go for a walk."


	16. Smoke

**SEMPER LIBER**

Summary: A dying man's final request sends a young woman to a new life at Badon Hill. TristanOC.

Disclaimer & Author's Note: I like to think that Malory would have his legends of King Arthur belong to the ages, but I cannot lay claim to them nor to those responsible for the 2004 film by the same name. Thank you for reading, and enjoy!

A/N#2: On with the show. I would love to hear what you think. Enjoy!

Chapter 16: Smoke

The hawk was not in the habit of diving low into the keep, and her presence startled more than one of the tavern's diners. She generally kept to the watch-wall, occassionally visiting the roof of the stables or the barracks. Not even Tristan could recall seeing her fly so low. She scattered plates and inspired cries, throwing in a few of her own.

"Damn it, Tristan!" Gawain shouted, throwing up his arm to cover his face.

The hawk flapped its wings, agitated. Tristan frowned and offered the frightened bird his arm. She snapped viciously in his direction and launched herself up into the air with a scream.

Galahad reached across the table, rescuing his disturbed breakfast. "That was weird."

In silent agreement, Tristan watched the hawk climb up over the tavern roof towards the south watch-wall.

"Maybe she's jealous," Lancelot sniggered.

Tristan rose from the table, barely registering the other knights' words. He followed the bird out of the tavern and up the narrow stairs to the series of embrasures crowning the main gate. By the time he reached the dew damp stones, the hawk was circling frenetically over the hay fields just beyond the fort.

Narrowing his eyes, first at the horizon to the east, then at the solid Roman guard to his left, Tristan asked, "How long has the fog been coming in?"

"Since dawn, give or take," the soldier answered, stubbornly refusing to look at the Sarmatian.

Tristan raised his face to the wind. "And how long has it smelled like smoke?"

The guard looked over, clearly unimpressed with the knight's insinuation.

Suppressing a growl, Tristan took a final, photographic look of the horizon. Fog such as this rarely came in from the east at this time of the year, and the scent did not bode well for the villages in that direction. Without another word to the Roman, Tristan jogged lightly down the stairs to the first floor of the keep.

Arthur was in the great hall, a map spread out on the table before him. He stood over the scroll, holding the edges down with his hands, scanning the neatly penned names of Roman settlements. His breakfast sat untouched on the lacquered table beside him.

"Arthur," Tristan announced himself. He crossed the broad room purposefully, his bold entrance immediately lighting concern in his commander's eye.

"Tristan," Arthur said by way of greeting. "What news?"

The scout glanced quickly over his shoulder before speaking, a habit. "There is smoke coming over the trees from the east." He added, "It is no village bonfire."

The weathered paper of the map snapped back into a roll when Arthur removed his hands. He was walking hastily beside Tristan before either man consciously thought to turn. "Has the Roman guard returned from that direction this morning?"

"I have not seen them," Tristan said. "I do not know." He followed silently as Arthur leapt up the steps to the watch-wall to take in the sight – and smell – for himself. It was faint, to him, but with Tristan's word, there was more than enough cause for concern.

"I will speak with Nevius," Arthur said after a few moments. "Tell our friends to prepare. I am sure he will insist on waiting for his own guard, and we may not have that time." He left Tristan almost before he finished spilling the words into the air. The thought of a village burning filled his head with burning and his lungs with the hot, acrid taste of smoke.

-

The young black horse was clearly not impressed with the weight of the war saddle on his back. He trotted awkwardly at first, twisting his hindquarters around as if trying to escape the line. Cariad flipped her wrist twice, urging him to travel straight. The horse settled down after a few turns, and Cariad let everything fade away but for the long line between her hand and the animal's hackamore. "Good boy," she murmured, just loudly enough for the colt to hear. He snorted rudely.

Less than ten minutes later, Cariad turned her head at the distinctive sound of men's boots in the courtyard. As the knights appeared in the doorway, the horse took advantage of her divided attention, nearly tugging her off her feet as he began to buck and pull against the long line. The colt seemed to delight in his own mischief, his bright eye flashing under his flying forelock.

Sitting back on her heels, Cariad pulled the horse around, taking in the line inches at a time until the animal could no longer keep up his high spirits. He planted his front feet and spun around in his hindquarters, tossing his head. Clearly, he had won the game he had been playing. For her part, Cariad was mildly annoyed, slightly winded, and a little amused.

"Put him away, girl," Jols said firmly, patting the horse firmly on the rump as he passed. "We need the room." He disappeared for a moment around the corner and returned with four heavily accented bridles in his hands.

Cariad bit back her question and obeyed, quietly untacking the horse in his stall at the end of the row. The animal was determined not to make the process easy, as much as he may have wanted the saddle off his back. He bobbed his head obnoxiously every time Jols passed with some piece of tack or another and snapped his teeth in the air when Kay pulled his chestnut out of the next stall.

Cariad balanced the saddle over the stall door, draping it with the martingale and plain harness. She left the hackamore on for the moment, trusting the horse absolutely but with very little faith in his current ability to behave. Practicing her own very best behavior – her willpower – she set to rubbing the horse down, trying to satisfy herself just listening to the familiar song of the knights preparing for a mission.

Horses groaned into the gratifying pressure of the brushes, stamped their hooves, and grunted under the weight of their saddles. Leather straps slid and snapped. Buckles and bits sang, quivers rattled, strings twanged. Axe heads and blades clanged against buckles on harnesses. Bed rolls rustled quietly, tied to the back of the saddles, balanced on the horses' dancing hindquarters.

Cariad stood at last, daring to watch over the top of the door. The sight of the dance – perfect, memorized, mesmerized, purposeful – would never cease to sadden her. In her friends, she saw her father, trying to imagine what they felt, if anything, as they prepared to leave the fort, knowing that they might be moments from undeserved death or injury.

The horse brushed up against her from behind, hanging its heavy head over her shoulder. He lipped at her hands, searching for a treat of some sort. When he found none, he left a messy trail of slobber up the side of her face. She grimaced, wiping the grime away with the sleeve of her dress. She caught Tristan's eye mid-gesture and offered him the barest smile and a nod. He returned the latter, meeting her eye only a moment longer than necessary.

Cariad spared herself a reassuring smile, liking the feel that it left on her lips. She leaned against the wall as they left, back to the stable door. The horse chewed enthusiastically on the rein looping low from his hackamore. She snatched the worn leather out of the colt's mouth. "Don't do that," she snapped good-naturedly. She waited until she could no longer hear the knights' horses in the courtyard before she traded the horse his bitless bridle for a carrot. She scrubbed the tack she'd borrowed and, when she was absolutely sure the men would be beyond the rise of the hill, she finally left her place. Cariad found it was much easier to stomach their departure in silence, and she had not once been disappointed. Their stoicism was almost reassuring.

-

It had happened only twice in the past twelve and a half years that they lost each other for more than a few hours. The smoke led down the east road, a blatant trail of ash and senseless destruction. The villages torched were those far enough from the tree line to protect the forest, and they did not come to one burning live until mid-afternoon. Not one man, woman, or child was found alive in rubble. The hours of searching had blackened Arthur's hands and hopes. A woman, a Briton in Roman dress, ghosted every ruined doorway.

It was the sixth village along the road, the fourth safely distanced from the forest, that was still lit in yellow and orange catastrophe. Blue-skinned demons seemed to leap from the flames, weapons drawn and aimed with angry battle cries. There were more of the woads than the defenders, villagers and conquerors combined.

Excalibur sliced through the air before Arthur thought to draw it. The sounds of battle raged around him, punctuated most painfully by the screams of the villagers, bloodcurdling anguish burning up in the flames. For every blue savage he felled, he saw two more, their crude axes digging mercilessly into the backs of young boys barely large enough to defend themselves. It would take weeks of nightmares to sort out the details, to arrange the sounds and sights and smells – the burning flesh and wood – into a proper memory. Even then, it would not be clear how, when the flames had been smothered and survivors recovered, Arthur's company of Sarmatian knights had fallen to five.

For a few moments, they all sat silently on horseback, gazing across the devastated landscape, searching. Then, Galahad nudged his horse around to the right and circled the village slowly, scanning the ground with listless hope. He found no weapon or rondel, no horseshoe or faulds belonging to Roman horse or Sarmatian cavalry. When he came full circle, Galahad stared miserably at Arthur, waiting for direction.

Arthur considered the men before him. Bors was the worst among them, though the short gash in his arms did not look particularly devastating.

Bors gestured to his injury with his chin. "Just a scratch," he said gruffly.

Arthur nodded, then shook off the smoke still stinging his eyes. "Lancelot," he said at last. "There is a village, hillside, less than a league north of here. Escort the survivors there and see them settled." Arthur scanned those soot-stained villagers still standing: a middle-aged woman, two young men no more than sixteen, and a girl of ten or so, a red-faced toddler in her arms. He narrowed his attention to the two young men. "Are you able?" At their nod, he jerked his head towards Lancelot. "Follow that man and take care." To Lancelot he said, "Get them settled, then search north. Keep an eye to the wall and return there by sunset."

Lancelot dismounted and helped the girl onto his mount, shifting the toddler to the arms of the woman. As his second-in-command took the path north, Arthur turned to Bors and Kay. "Continue east. Do not engage. Return to the Wall by sunset." Kay nodded and spurred his horse, Bors following close behind.

Galahad glanced nervously at Gawain. "West," Arthur said, meeting each man's eye in turn.

"Sunset," Gawain said firmly. "Where do you ride?"

"South," Arthur answered, scanning the horizon in that direction. "They have simply gotten lost," he said, mostly to himself. "We will find them." He pointed his stallion north and left without another word on the subject, to himself or otherwise.

"Tristan doesn't get lost," Galahad muttered.

Gawain turned his horse sharply, deliberately knocking his mount's shoulder into Galahad's. He whistled sharply, scanning the still smoky sky against hope. "I never thought I would want the sight of that bird."

"Tristan doesn't get lost," Galahad repeated sullenly. "Dagonet doesn't get lost."

Frustration and rage flooded between Gawain's ears. "Shut your mouth and open your eyes, boy." He kicked his horse more forcefully than necessary or, indeed, kind, and spared no thought but to follow his own order. Tristan did not get lost. Dagonet did not get lost.


	17. Missing

**SEMPER LIBER**

Summary: A dying man's final request sends a young woman to a new life at Badon Hill. TristanOC.

Disclaimer & Author's Note: I like to think that Malory would have his legends of King Arthur belong to the ages, but I cannot lay claim to them nor to those responsible for the 2004 film by the same name. Thank you for reading, and enjoy!

A/N#2: Not bad, but not for the truly weak of stomach either. Off you go!

Chapter 17: Missing

The fire clung to his back, clawing at his right shoulder. His ribs ached. Tristan bent low to his horse's neck, thrusting his dao into the chest of a young woman whose blue skin soon bled black. She went down fighting, her weapon slicing into his horse's right cannon as she hit the ground. The animal stumbled but gamely kept its feet. Tristan rolled his shoulder against the gnawing heat. He felt the stinging snap of a broken bowstring against the back of his neck. The bow slid to the ground, grazing the horse's heaving hindquarters and disappearing into the roaring flame.

The tree line loomed closer – their territory. Though the forested landscape had become second nature to him long ago, he knew that the woods meant their advantage. Even now, the savages were conducting his every move, leading Dagonet into the edge of the wood and beyond. There were five of them, axes raised, tearing at the gentle knight without mercy.

Tristan closed his eyes briefly, squeezing the pain into the back of his mind. When he opened them, Dagonet was gone but for the scream of his horse through the trees. The blue ghosts had all but faded, the last of them disappearing into the long dark shadows of late afternoon.

His horse stumbled suddenly, pitching him from the saddle and onto the forest floor. Tristan felt as though he continued to fly from there, damp leaves clinging to his hands and face as the treetops flew up and then down. When he came to a stop, face down in a muddy ravine, he had only a moment to note that the burn in his shoulder had faded to a sharp ache before his eyes closed against the miserable sight of blood drying on his hands.

-

The knights returned in ones and twos as the sun finished its slow arc to the west. Their exhaustion was evident before they reached the gates. Their shoulders slumped and their horses' heads hung lung. They did not seem eager to return to the keep. Vanora's girls frowned, leaning their elbows on the watch wall in near unison, a pair of skinny statues waiting to be dressed in moonlight.

"We should tell Ma," the elder said slowly.

The other tugged at one of her braids. "There's only two. Does that count?"

The elder squinted. "There's another over there," she said, pointing to a dark figure making its way slowly across the field to the east. "I think it is Lancelot."

The younger girl giggled. "Lancelot." She pursed her lips in a comical mask of consideration. "I think we should tell Ma." She tugged at her sister's wrist.

"All right," the elder agreed at last. "The others cannot be far behind."

The girls eyed the Roman guard at the top of the stair warily. The younger one smothered a laugh as they passed and descended to courtyard. They ran through the narrow streets and alleys to the kitchen tavern, hands clasped together as if of their own accord. They burst through the door, flushed and breathless.

"They're back!" the younger one gasped.

"Some," the other corrected, poking her sister in the ribs. "Pa and Kay and Lancelot."

"The rest cannot be far," Vanora said easily, unknowingly echoing her eldest daughter's assessment of the situation. "Come on, then," she added, jerking her head towards the board. "Help Cariad with the potatoes."

Cariad looked over her shoulder at Vanora.

"Dogs always come home for dinner," Vanora joked. "Eventually."

Cariad huffed and turned back to the cutting board. She set a peeled potato down in front of the ten-year-old and handed her a knife. "Smaller pieces then last time, eh?"

The girl nodded smartly. "Smaller pieces."

The four of them stayed in the kitchen for the next few hours of out sheer willpower. At the end of the first hour, Lancelot and Kay passed through the door, clearly intent on dining at the large table and out of the noise of the tavern.

"You cannot be the only ones who are hungry," Vanora teased, holding Lancelot's plate out of his reach.

Lancelot stood and stole the plate from her hand without a lascivious word. "Arthur will take his dinner in the great hall," he said.

Kay ate with his hands in messy silence. He caught Cariad's eye and looked away too quickly for her liking. Vanora served a plate and passed it to the younger woman. "I am sure Arthur is famished."

Willing calm the slow churn in her stomach, Cariad took the plate and drink through the dim streets to Arthur's hall. She passed through the decorated door and into the presence of not only Arthur, but Gawain and Galahad as well.

Arthur waved her in silently. Cariad laid the plate and drink down in front of him, not daring to break the heavy silence that hung between her guardian and his knights. She smiled weakly and took a step back, hands folded in front of her.

"Our friends are hungry," Arthur said, green eyes boring into her own. "Perhaps you would accompany them to dinner."

Nodding, Cariad turned and took Gawain's proffered arm. Galahad was decidedly more sullen than usual, and Gawain's reticence was disheartening at best. The knot in her stomach built with every step until they reached the kitchens.

Kay and Lancelot were near to finished, and Bors now sat on the bench between his two eldest daughters. His lower arm was bandaged and face dim, but his appetite was unaffected by whatever it was that the knights were not telling.

Vanora forced her friend to take a seat with Gawain and Galahad, served each of the newcomers a plate, and then settled at the table with her own. The silence was suffocating, and with every breath she could spare, Cariad followed Vanora's unspoken order to them all: "Eat."

-

Tristan woke in the darkness. He lay still for several moments, flexing his fingers experimentally in the damp debris around him. Groaning, he pushed himself to his knees. His right side ached and his shoulder stung terribly. A soft nicker drew his attention. He lifted his throbbing head until the silver grey figure of his horse appeared in his vision. He clucked softly to the animal.

"Hey, lad," he said, wrapping his hand around the horse's cheek strap. He leaned heavily on the animal as he rose to his feet, dizzy and sore. He slammed his eyes shut and pressed his forehead to the horse's neck. When he opened his eyes, he scrutinized the animal carefully. His right fore was stained with blood, but he seemed to be bearing his weight well enough. Aside from a few scrapes and patches of mud, the animal appeared to be fine.

Tristan, on the other hand, was having a difficult time catching his breath. His ribs ached. He gritted his teeth against the pain that shot through his torso as he pulled himself up into the saddle. With a gasp, he clawed at the back of his right shoulder. His fingers found the burnt edges of his vest and the tatters of his tunic underneath. His skin was hot to the touch and stung painfully. "Damn," he hissed.

Laying his palm flat against the horse's neck, Tristan took in his surroundings. He was at the bottom of a ravine, its slope scarred with the memory of his descent, thick tracks of mud marking his fall and that of his horse. Determining that climbing out of the ravine from this position would be near to impossible, and likely to cause at least one of them further injury, Tristan turned his stallion to the left, following the dry streambed that ran along the bottom of the slope.

The horse limped slightly. Tristan squinted through the darkness, trying to determine the measure of the animal's discomfort. As if sensing his master's thoughts, the stallion shook his head and snorted softly. He marched on gamely and took care to step around objects in their path hidden from Tristan's inferior sight.

Tristan held one hand firmly to his right side as the horse meandered along the ravine floor. After what might have been hours, the steep slope on his left leveled out and opened onto the leaf-blanketed forest floor. He let the animal drift in that direction, giving the horse the benefit of the doubt. Tristan was only vaguely aware of his position himself, and acutely aware that his assessment might have been wrong.

As the stallion led him through the night towards pale sunrise, Tristan dozed feverishly. He dreamt in dizzying flashes: blue savages dancing through fire, a circle of blackened cottages, the green fury in his commander's eyes, and Dagonet, his horse's hooves disappearing at last into the dark, leafy shadow of woad territory.

In the dim blue of morning's first light, Tristan opened his eyes to the heavy, rounded barrel of a dead cow. His horse had stopped, its head hung low to the other animal's shattered hind leg. Blinking rapidly, Tristan wiped the sweat of restless sleep from his forehead. When his vision cleared, he saw not a dead cow, but the once-handsome form of Dagonet's warhorse. Blood trickled from the animal's ear and nostril, its poll cracked at an unnatural angle.

Tristan nearly fell from his own horse in his hasty attempt to reach the ground before he emptied his stomach. The part of his mind that wasn't burning with fever was ashamed and confused at his own reaction to the dead animal. After a few minutes of heavy breathing and blurred vision, Tristan hauled himself to his feet. "Good lad," he rasped, patting his horse lightly on the shoulder. "Now find Dagonet."

-

Gawain watched, wincing, as Cariad tore at her hair, its long dark waves sparking in the candlelight. She had been at it for almost ten minutes, and each stroke sounded to Gawain like ripping fabric. Finally tiring of the torture, he rose and pulled the brush gently from her hands. "Stop."

Cariad shrugged of his hand and bent her head, tying her hair back into a messy braid. "You first," she grunted back, looking up at him sharply. She sighed. "I'm sorry."

"You need some sleep," Gawain insisted.

Cariad arched an eyebrow at her friend. "As do you, and yet here we are."

Gawain perched on the edge of the bed and rested his elbows on his knees. He gave her a sideways look. "They are not dead," he said firmly.

"No," Cariad agreed, drawing her legs up underneath her. She yawned.

"Sleep," Gawain said, reaching out to grip her shoulder firmly. "We go back out at first light."

Cariad breathed deeply, eyes downcast. She could not force the aching worry from her gut; it twisted like a tightly coiled snake. She rubbed absently at her brow, her fingers pale and shaking with an exhaustion that had nothing to do with Tristan's disappearance. She sighed again.

"…all right? Cariad?"

Looking up quickly, she met Gawain's confused gaze with one of her own. "I am fine," she promised, thinking that the best answer to the question she thought he had asked. "Just tired."

Gawain offered her a weak half-smile. "Exactly. Get some sleep."

Cariad nodded and curled into her blankets, pressing the lingering scent of Tristan against her cheek. She splashed down almost immediately into the warm pool of sleep. As if in a dream, she heard Gawain's footsteps approach, felt the warm heavy weight of his hand on the crown of her head. The footsteps retreated, but there was no sound of departure from the door. "Go home, Gawain," she murmured, but she was already asleep.

-

Gawain slept the sleep of a traveling man. He dozed vigilantly on an unused wool blanket in the corner of the front room, back to the wall. Whenever he woke, it took a moment to snap the pieces of his surroundings together into reality. He adjusted quickly to the sounds of life on the first level of the keep: a pair of dogs scratching in the alleyway, the slow drip of a stone gutter two doors down, and Cariad's soft, even breathing in the next room.

If Tristan had to sleep on the ground, Gawain would sleep on the ground. If Tristan could not watch over Cariad, Gawain would. The girl had become almost as dear to him as his brothers. His vigil came from a sense of duty to all of his friends, and a balm he hoped would soothe the guilt at having given up the search and returned to the Wall for food and comfort, abandoning his fellows in their hour of need.

He woke again to the strange hitch of her breath, listened carefully to the gasping pause that followed. She cried, a sound with the delicacy of lace whose deeper notes grew ugly as the minutes passed. Gawain finally stirred. He had been determined to leave her to her sorrow – it was what he would have wanted for himself, and what any of them deserved – but the undercurrent of her tears troubled him.

Gawain crept quietly into the bedroom. Cariad cried with her back to him, curled tightly in on herself, shoulders shaking. He touched her hair carefully. "_Little one?_"

Sobbing, Cariad shrank away. "Leave me alone," she gasped.

Gawain sat, reaching across the blankets to pull her out of herself. She refused his touch, wrenching her arm away with a muffled cry of pain. She hid her fisted hands against her chest. On instinct, Gawain's hand shot out, his fingers closing tightly around her wrist. He pulled her roughly towards him, forcing her clenched fingers open with the cruel pressure of his thumb.

"Just leave me alone," Cariad begged.

Gawain grasped her chin tightly with his free hand, forcing her to look at him. "Do not move. Do not even breathe." He released her hand. "I will be right back. Do you understand me?"

With all the confidence of a lost and faithless child, Cariad nodded. Gawain stood abruptly and left, slamming the door loudly. When he had gone, she returned to her side, curled up against the wall, and let her eyes kaleidoscope the watery traces of blood that decorated her fingers.


	18. Vision

**SEMPER LIBER**

Summary: A dying man's final request sends a young woman to a new life at Badon Hill. TristanOC.

Disclaimer & Author's Note: I like to think that Malory would have his legends of King Arthur belong to the ages, but I cannot lay claim to them nor to those responsible for the 2004 film by the same name. Thank you for reading, and enjoy!

Chapter 18: Vision

Ending the horse's misery with his own axe seared sharper than the swollen laceration that transected the left side of his face from brow to cheek. "_Off you go, lad_," he whispered, laying his broad hand against the animal's neck. Dagonet removed his water skein from the horse's harness and washed his face, probing his injury with careful fingers. There was no doubt that the wound would scar.

Dagonet turned, leaving the horse to its well deserved rest. He did not look back. He walked for hours through the woods in search of direction. The sun fell slowly from the sky and the moon rose, mostly hidden by the dark canopy over his head. He traveled like a drunk man, unbalanced, relying on the exhausted vision of his right eye and his tired ears to lead him between the trees.

The forest thinned as the sun rose and Dagonet paused, deliberating. He had no choice but to enter the open field beyond the trees. He was a target, under cover of woods or sun. Night had passed into morning without event. Perhaps they thought he was dead, or near enough that they no longer cared about his presence.

Though he was not the keenest hunter among them, the years had given Dagonet the skills necessary to identify the varied tones of company outside the safe keep of Badon Hill. Hare, hart, woads. The sound that filtered through the trees now was almost familiar enough to put him at ease. A horse, limping slightly, approached him from behind.

Half-blind, Dagonet turned, axe held high. A grey horse sidestepped nervously, backing away from the aggressive gesture. The man on its back swayed, but held on. "Dagonet."

Dagonet lowered his weapon with a heavy, relieved sigh. "Tristan."

-

Cariad's hands still shook an hour later as the midwife wrapped her fingers around a warm mug of herbal tea. "Drink up, then." She slapped the girl lightly on the cheek. She turned to Vanora. "Nervous little bird, isn't she?"

"Hardly," Vanora said gruffly. "What have you given her?"

The midwife waved the question away. "Nothing. It will put her to sleep." She drew Vanora away to the front room, leaving the young woman sitting curled up on her bed, staring blankly out the window at the approaching dawn.

"Is there anything that can be done?" Vanora asked.

"What you have here is a stubborn, foolish girl with a weak constitution," the midwife said matter-of-factly. "She has not lost this one, but she may if she continues to make herself sick."

Vanora sighed. "I will talk to her," she said quietly. The midwife had no way of knowing the real trouble, but there was nothing to be done, so Vanora held her tongue.

Arthur and the knights had risen early and were already in the stables, preparing to begin their search for their fellows anew. It had been nearly impossible to remove Gawain from the rooms, though eventually his greater duty to his brother won out over his concern for his friend.

The midwife pressed a packet of herbs into Vanora's hand. "No dancing, no horses, no cavorting with those dogs you two fancy so much." She shook her head. "Stupid girls. Stupid, stupid girls."

"Madam!" Vanora exclaimed in mock offense.

"Do not 'madam' me," the midwife muttered, pushing Vanora aside with a strength that belied her thin, middle-aged frame. She paused in the doorway. "And you," she said, assessing Vanora with the eyes of a disapproving mother. "No more from you. You have had enough."

Vanora turned the herbs over in her hands, smirking as the midwife left. She set the packet on the board and joined Cariad. "Well, my wonderful girl," she said warmly, climbing onto the bed. She wrapped her arms around her friend and pressed a kiss to her cheek. "Everything is fine, you see."

Cariad nodded sullenly, then came to her senses and offered Vanora a weak smile. "I am so scared," she admitted. She sighed. "He will return," she said, as if trying to convince herself.

"Yes," Vanora said firmly. She smoothed Cariad's hair back from her forehead. "For he is as stubborn and foolish as you." She smiled and laid her head on the younger woman's shoulder. "Drink your tea, my wonderful girl."

Cariad obeyed, swallowing the hot, sweet liquid. "You willfully drug me," she murmured.

"I do," Vanora said easily. "You need your rest. Everything will be all right." She removed the empty mug from Cariad's now steady hands. "You will be all right."

Cariad closed her hand over Vanora's in thanks. For more than twenty years, Cariad's life had been a narrow cell: no mother, a soldier for a father, and no friends to speak of. Now, on the strange condition of her father's death, she had been gifted with what she had missed all those years: a sister and mother, brothers, a lover. And a child. A family.

She breathed deeply, expelling the black thoughts. Tristan would come home to her. She would not give him the choice. She closed her eyes, warm and drowsy.

"I know."

-

Lancelot spotted the hawk shortly before noon, her wings dark and welcome against the clouded sky. He grinned. "Arthur!"

Arthur followed Lancelot's pointing finger, grateful for his friend's confidence. He hoped to find his knights alive and in good health, but knew better than to expect such a perfect outcome. He watched the hawk's graceful flight over a copse of trees in the distance. Bors and Kay had fanned eastward in the morning, Gawain and Galahad to the west, and Arthur and Lancelot approached the copse alone.

Tristan's horse stood half-hidden by the thin trees, tearing tender green leaves from their branches. The hawk screeched from a nearby pine, flapping its wings agitatedly. Lancelot and Arthur circled the copse slowly, weapons drawn and ready. Arthur cleared his throat. "Tristan!"

Lancelot's horse jumped backwards as the trees in front of him shivered. Tristan emerged slowly from behind his horse, hand pressed to his side, slightly hunched over. He stumbled and leaned wearily on the injured animal. He said nothing, but met Lancelot's eye with the nearest thing to pleading the dark knight had ever seen on the scout's face.

Arthur spun his horse around, approaching the pair. "Tristan."

Tristan tilted his head, gesturing over his shoulder to where Dagonet sat resting against the trunk of a heavy oak. "Dagonet is here," he announced, his voice a mere breath passed over a grate of pain. "As well."

-

"Tristan."

He felt the cool trail of her fingers across his brow. His chest opened up a little, the fresh air bringing sight back to his eyes. He caught a glimpse of her shoulder from beneath his lowered lids, then her neck as she leaned over him, brushing the hair away from his face. Her soft smile swam into his vision.

"You came back to me," she murmured, resting her chin on the edge of the cot. She closed her fingers around his and squeezed. She raised his hand to her mouth, held it there like a talisman. In a moment, she understood his unrelenting desire to press his forehead against her own, or his face to her neck, to feel her skin touching his, utterly connected.

Tristan struggled to keep his eyes open. They stung with the heat of his fever. He groaned, ashamed at the quiet emission of pain, despite his exhaustion.

"Sh." Cariad laid her other hand flat on his exposed lower back, below the dressing that protected the angry red burn that stretched across the expanse of his right shoulder blade. There was nothing to be done for his badly bruised ribs. She moved her thumb in slow, gentle circles.

Clumsily, Tristan uncurled his fingers from hers to touch her cheek. She held his hand there, meeting his eye with a sort of easy, loving devotion he never thought he'd know.

"Tristan." She leaned into his hand, pressing her lips together as tears came to her eyes. "I'm pregnant."

Tristan tangled his fingers tightly in her dark hair and closed his eyes. She laid her head down on the mattress by her left shoulder, her hand still splayed protectively across the small of his back. She closed her eyes and listened as his breathing evened out and gave him sleep.

Vanora removed herself from the doorway to touch her friend's shoulder. "Come on, now," she said gently. "We should get something to eat."

Cariad bit her lip. She carefully untangled Tristan's fingers from her hair and gave Vanora a short smile. "All right."

Vanora helped the younger woman off the floor. "What did I tell you?" she asked, hugging Cariad close to her as they left the infirmary.

Cariad bent her head towards Vanora's, stepping lightly across the courtyard towards the kitchens. She weighed nothing, had rediscovered her gravity. Her life, love, and purpose had been restored to her, broken, but hot and rich and alive.

-

Tristan flinched.

"Sorry," Cariad murmured, peeling the day-old dressing from his right shoulder. She wiped the remnants of waleda wax from the burn with a cool, damp cloth.

He shuddered again, against his will. "Stop."

Cariad lifted her hands away immediately. "Sorry," she repeated. After a few moments, she reached for the waleda and a fresh bandage. She tried to distract him as she began to carefully redress the wound. "Would you prefer a boy or a girl?"

Tristan gritted his teeth against her touch. "Any son of mine is a slave of Rome," he said gruffly. "You will give me a daughter."

Cariad bit her lip, suppressing a smile. "As you wish."

"Stop," Tristan repeated sharply, reaching behind him. Blindly, he managed to grasp the sleeve of her dress. He twisted the fabric tightly. "You make me feel like an invalid," he muttered.

"You cannot do it yourself," Cariad answered, matching his prickly tone.

Tristan shook his head and shrugged his injured shoulder away, masking his pain with a low growl. "I do not want you to have to take care of me."

Cariad sat back against Tristan's pillow, legs curled beneath her. She glanced out the window of the tiny infirmary room, trying to hold her temper. Slowly, she said, "You would do the same for me." She paused, leaning around him in an attempt to catch his eye. "You have done the same for me."

"You are a woman," Tristan said, turning his head to the side to avoid her searching gaze.

"And you are a stubborn, infuriating man," she said harshly. "You have taken comfort from me before and you will do so now." She sat back again and forced his shoulders square with firm hands. She finished redressing the burn efficiently, though less gently than she could have. She hooked her chin over his left shoulder and locked her arms around his chest. "Done."

Tristan breathed out the irritation constricting his chest. He raised his hand to hers, circling her wrist easily with his fingers. He would never tell her how good it felt in that moment to have the persistent, willful warmth of her against his back, shielding him from the frustration and anger that constantly threatened to consume him.

-

Dagonet patted the black colt firmly on the shoulder. Only a week ago he had stood here, considering the young horse's form and character. A week ago, Cariad had put the colt's lead in his hand, determined and stoic. This morning, she had insisted that he honor the pact they had made, and he had acquiesced. The horse needed training, for which Dagonet had the time while his injuries healed. His vision had been temporarily compromised but not damaged, and it was only the swelling that made it difficult for him to see out of his left eye.

"Shall we give it a go, lad?" he asked quietly.

The horse shoved Dagonet hard in the chest, then bit him.

Dagonet pulled his shirt from the colt's teeth. The horse was nearly a hand shorter than his grey, and untold years younger. He had mischief in his eye and the promise of loyalty behind it. He thought of Cariad, whom the animal had dutifully carried to the fort the winter before, and the good she had done for all of them with her easy smile. He prayed to the gods that he would not make her regret this gift.

"All right then," he said, forcing a proper bit into the horse's mouth. He secured the bridle while the colt shook its head, instantly dissatisfied with the new equipment. "No time like the present."


	19. Belonging

**SEMPER LIBER**

Summary: A dying man's final request sends a young woman to a new life at Badon Hill. TristanOC.

Disclaimer & Author's Note: I like to think that Malory would have his legends of King Arthur belong to the ages, but I cannot lay claim to them nor to those responsible for the 2004 film by the same name. Thank you for reading, and enjoy!

A/N#2: I am sure I never intended this to go on so long, but I hope you are still enjoying the story. Woeful thought cookies for all, starting with TRO.

Chapter 19: Belonging

Cariad leaned her chin on her hand, gazing longingly at Dagonet and Ryn as the pair trotted fairly around the indoor arena. The horse had taken to his new master in the past two months. Try as she might, it was impossible to completely rid herself of the sting that came with the knowledge of the animal's devoted affection towards Dagonet. Still, as she watched them, there was no denying that she had made the right decision. The horse was fit and happy. Purpose suited him.

She wallowed, feeling sorry for herself. She had spent the week sewing together two new dresses, and her fingers were tired and sore. Her head was heavy one moment and floating the next. Sleep did not come easily to her these days. Worst of all, she was utterly and interminably bored.

Distracted by her thoughts and the smooth, rhythmic movements of the horse and rider, Cariad did not notice her company until he was close enough to tug on her sleeve. She startled, capturing the offending hand in a defensive motion. She sighed. "Lancelot. You scared me."

Lancelot smirked and sat on the bench beside her. "I had no intention of doing so." He leaned his elbows on his knees. He watched Dagonet take the horse around in silence for a few minutes, happy for the sight and the company.

"Do you suppose you will come with us when we return home?" he asked, glancing at Cariad out of the corner of his eye.

Cariad wrung her hands unconsciously. "I dare hope that I will. I will go where Tristan goes," she said simply. "If that is what he desires."

Lancelot turned his head, surprised by her response. "And what of your desires?"

"I often feel that I do not belong here," she admitted. "Your exile is indeed harsher than mine. But with my father gone, I have felt… homeless," she said softly, watching the horse's hooves brush through the dirt. "I would follow you all."

"What of the company you keep?" Lancelot asked.

"You know better than I that even the best and most faithful company does not make a home," Cariad said, meeting his eye. "You live and fight amongst your brothers, and you would never consider this place home."

"No," Lancelot answered, shaking his head slowly. He watched, concerned, as Cariad closed her eyes and pressed her hand to her forehead. He touched her shoulder. "Are you all right?"

"Yes." She nodded and pulled her hand away. "Just a headache."

Lancelot let his hand fall to the bench between them. "May I ask you a question?"

Cariad smiled slightly. "Is that the question, or do you have another?"

Lancelot chuckled, folding his hands between his knees. He met her inquisitive eye. "Why Tristan?"

Cariad answered his question with a strange half-smile. After a moment, she leaned over and pressed her finger firmly into the center of his chest. "Because he fits," she said. "Right here." Lancelot covered her hand with his, and she blushed and pulled away.

"You are very young," he said gently.

"I am not wrong," Cariad said easily, voice warm with confidence.

Lancelot squeezed her hand with the affection of a favored older brother. "I know. Perhaps it just difficult for me to understand how any of us might find happiness here." He cast off the coming storm with a bright grin. "If you ever change your mind about Tristan…"

Frowning skeptically, Cariad smacked him in the chest. "You are terrible."

"You love me," Lancelot teased.

Cariad grunted, hiding her amusement. "Not by choice," she muttered.

-

Galahad had never been quite so sure that he might die at the hands of one of his fellows. The opportunity for injury was not so uncommon: they were all skilled fighters with enough pent-up anger for an entire army. Sparring with Tristan when the other man was trying to regain his feet – physically or emotionally – was a more dangerous fight than most. It was as if the man had something to prove.

Tristan's weakness, and Galahad's edge, was in the ever-so-slightly limited range of motion in the scout's right shoulder. Though it was clear that Tristan was pushing himself, lashing out through the pain that lingered beneath the scar tissue, he was not at his physical best. He was, however, unusually vicious.

Galahad matched each terrifying slice of Tristan's dao with his short sword. Tristan had already relieved him of his more appropriate long blade, and Galahad was sure that this particular battle would not end with sweat and dust. Someone was bound to bleed.

Galahad struck a well-placed blow to Tristan's bicep, blunt side of his blade to the other man's arm. Tristan growled, slicing back at Galahad with barely controlled anger. Gritting his teeth, Galahad repeated his attack with the business side of his short sword, expecting Tristan to block the ill-chosen move easily. The younger man held back when he realized Tristan would not be in time to defend himself.

Galahad was truly surprised – and slightly horrified – that it had been he who drew the blood that ended the match.

-

"You are afraid to touch me. Why?"

Tristan looked up from the table where he cleaning his knives. Cariad was tearing dried lavender from their stalks, fingers moving nimbly through the pale purple petals. He raised his brow at her when she glanced over at him, then bowed his head to his work.

Cariad sighed heavily.

It was many minutes – he finished one blade – before Tristan spoke. "I barely know myself when I am with you."

Furrowing her brow, Cariad turned to face him, inadvertently dusting the floor with lavender. "Tell me how that is not a horrible thing to say." Cursing her swift emotions, she willed back the tears that might have spilled from her eyes. She clenched her hands tightly, digging her fingernails into her palms while she waited for his answer.

The hot mix of hate and desire to give her what she deserved churned in his chest. "You have no idea what you ask of me."

"Enlighten me," she returned sharply.

Tristan ran the edge of one freshly prepared blade along his thumb. "When they came, I was not sixteen," he said to the gleaming knife. "I never had the chance to imagine a life. I was not old enough to want anything but my freedom, and that was a hopeless desire." He did not once look up at her. "I did not expect you," he finished nonchalantly.

Cariad softened, brushing the last of the lavender from her lightly stained fingers. She crossed the floor with light, forgiving steps, and reached out to touch him. His hand shot out, a frighteningly quick reflex. He wrapped his fingers around her wrist before her fingertips could brush his shoulder. She gasped in surprise, but secretly welcomed his bruising grip.

"I do not deserve you," he said darkly.

Cariad had missed the tender affection that had captured her almost a year prior. Since his return, it seemed he wallowed in this shadow more often than not. His bouts of quiet desperation left her feeling quite alone, even at night as she lay beside him in their warm, comfortable silence.

"What are you afraid of?" she insisted.

Tristan loosed her wrist and pressed his hands flat to the table. "You could have done better."

"You insult me," Cariad answered. She repeated, "What are you afraid of?"

"I hardly feel like I belong," he said, looking up at her sharply.

"You deserve life as much as any man," she said, forcing kindness into her voice. "Why is it so difficult for you to accept that?"

"Because of you!" Tristan said, much louder than he intended. With more than a little effort, he softened his words. "Because I care for you, and I fear what would happen to you if I am no longer with you at the end of these three years."

"Please, Tristan." Cariad closed her eyes for a moment, frustrated and quietly sad. When she opened them, she was more than a little surprised to find that he met her gaze. "I wish you would quit that talk." She reached again for his hand and pressed it firmly to her swollen abdomen. "This belongs to you. I belong to you. Please do not be sorry for that."

Tristan flexed his fingers against her pregnant belly, a kind of discovery. He stood slowly. He raised his hand to her face, tracing his fingers down the line of her cheek. He took in the sadness and the hope in her dark eyes and felt immediately sorry for what he had held back from her because of his own guilt. Still, it was not easy for him to speak to any of these emotions, and it was a struggle he did not always have the strength to engage in. "You are so young," he whispered.

Cariad pressed her lips together, smiling weakly. "So I have heard."

Leaning in, Tristan kissed her temple, then her eyelids as they fell closed. He took her face in his hands and pressed his lips to hers. It took all his strength to speak the words. "Thank you."

-

Gawain's letters were getting longer, though he had very little to write of. He had tired of Arthur's gift of Pelagius after the first few days, finding it difficult to stomach the philosopher's beliefs regarding free will and the nature of man. He appreciated Arthur's fervor, but the manuscript was a torture he refused to put himself through on a regular basis.

Galahad read the sloppy letters with no small measure of admiration. In Percival's wake, Gawain had become as dear as real family, though it was awkward at first to be the younger brother. Galahad ate up Gawain's hopes and dreams for returning home like happy fairytales. He imagined his friend's happy family somewhere on the shores of the Black Sea, absolutely free.

Folding closed his response, Galahad rose from the small table crammed into the corner of his room. He traded stories of his childhood for Gawain's hopes for the future, stringing these half-secrets between them like the ties of true family. Smiling slightly, Galahad left his room for the stables, slipping the letter under Gawain's door as he passed.

-

Vanora ladled out a large bowl of chicken stew and put it down on the table in front of Cariad. "You are too skinny." She handed the younger woman a spoon and two thick slices of bread. "Eat!"

Cariad widened her eyes incredulously. "I barely fit in my own bed!" she exclaimed, gesturing to her swollen abdomen. Seven months into her pregnancy, she felt twice her size, and found it increasingly difficult to believe that she would grow for another two months before the thing was done.

"You look like a girl," Vanora insisted, joining her at the table with her own meal. The men would be hungry soon, and she was bent on removing Cariad from the kitchens before they arrived. The young woman was visibly exhausted, and with good reason. "A woman should be plump and round. You will never have the strength to go through with this as you are," she joked.

"Watch your tongue," Cariad warned, steering the conversation away from her not-so-secret fear.

Vanora rolled her eyes. "I am only trying to get you to eat," she said firmly. "You will be fine."

Cariad admitted her hunger, consuming half her meal eagerly before she spoke again. "How have you done this nine times?" she asked, licking her lips. "I have not found it to be a particularly pleasant experience."

"I…"

"Because she is a horse and a bully," Bors interrupted, entering the kitchens with Dagonet and Kay. He leaned down to kiss his lover fiercely, grinning obnoxiously when she returned his kiss with a slap to the chest.

Cariad laughed. "Oh?"

"You are a bully as well," Kay said, sitting heavily on the bench beside Cariad. "Not a horse, though." He assessed her for a moment, shrugged, and stole her last slice of bread. Vanora reached across the table to smack his hand, but the deed was done.

Cariad raised one eyebrow skeptically. "How am I a bully?"

"Ah," Kay said, a familiar flush coming to his face as he laughed. "As if you do not know. You are decidedly unladylike and you tease us relentlessly. If you were a man, I dare say I would have put you in your place a long time ago."

Cariad's mouth fell open in surprise. "Are you threatening a pregnant woman?" she asked as Dagonet served himself and sat beside her with a gentle pat on her back. He slid a slice of bread onto her plate to replace the one Kay stole.

"Oh, no," Bors answered for his friend. "Even Kay is not quite that stupid."


	20. Miracle

**SEMPER LIBER**

Summary: A dying man's final request sends a young woman to a new life at Badon Hill. TristanOC.

Disclaimer & Author's Note: I like to think that Malory would have his legends of King Arthur belong to the ages, but I cannot lay claim to them nor to those responsible for the 2004 film by the same name. Thank you for reading, and enjoy!

A/N#2: All babies are born with blue eyes, so suspend your disbelief. Good morning, star shine.

Chapter 20: Miracle

The night was cold and clear. Stars hung high above the battlements, still and glittering like ice. The hour had turned the Roman flags black, their banners twisting violently in the rising wind. The tavern was warmly lit and full enough to compensate for the winter weather. Cider ale flowed, infusing the air with a hot, pungent scent.

Cariad was restless. She leaned heavily against the archway that separated the tavern from the street beyond. She curled her fingers into the folds of her wool cloak and turned her face into her hood. She let her head rest against the stone and closed her eyes, breathing in the crisp night air.

From across the tavern where he sat in the company of his fellow knights, Tristan watched her cheeks flush beneath the flickering light of the sconces. Eyes still sweetly closed, her lips twitched into a secret smile. He felt its whispered promise swell in his chest. It still overwhelmed him sometimes – as she would argue that it should – that he had come to love her so strongly.

Cariad's eyes opened then, and she met his affectionate scrutiny easily. She uncurled her fingers from her cloak and raised her hand in a small wave. She threw him a smile, almost shy, and disappeared into the shadows beyond the archway.

Tristan lingered long enough to enjoy his hot drink before he followed her. "Good night," he muttered to the other men. Galahad chuckled, a little drunkenly, but the sound of it did not reach Tristan's ears. He smirked, however, at his own private thoughts. Roaming solitude was the quiet haven of many females on the verge of giving birth.

Cariad traveled the cold, dark streets, comfortable with the scout's near silent presence following her like a shadow. She wandered, leading him for nearly a half hour before she paused and held out of her hand. Tristan took her it, his hot fingers burning against her palm. Cariad leaned against the wall of the armory, tilting her head up to the sky.

Slipping his arm around her shoulders, Tristan turned her body into his, pressing his cheek to hers in a rare show of unsolicited affection. He kissed the corner of her mouth, then pulled her close, holding her tightly against him. "_I… love you_," he whispered.

Cariad chuckled, a puff of air against his jaw. He felt her cold hands at the back of his neck and shivered, not unpleasantly. "_I love you_," she answered. She pulled away slightly, her dark eyes shining with anticipation. "I think I ought to lie down."

Tristan drew up a half-smile and kissed her forehead. He took her arm and walked them slowly back to their rooms, a place so near to home that he occasionally misspoke and called it as such.

While Cariad undressed, awkward and careful, Tristan knelt and built a fire. He turned to watch her as he stoked the flame. He could not help seeing her as he had so many times in those first few weeks he'd known her, a pale ghost dressed in quiet and white. Her shift fell to her calves, loose, draped over her like one of Arthur's Roman myths. She was beautiful and barely there and blessedly real. He did not realize he stared until she finished changing and mocked him with her eyes.

"The night is young," Cariad answered his unspoken question. "Enjoy our friends' company. I am not going anywhere."

Tristan rose and helped her into bed, more of a hindrance than a help to her fully pregnant body, but she welcomed his attentions. Cariad turned carefully onto her side, facing him. He drew the thick pile of wool blankets and quilts from the foot of the bed up to her shoulders, burying her under their weight. She smiled softly and stole his hand. "Go," she said, kissing his fingertips.

"Are you sure?" Tristan asked.

Cariad nodded with a tired hum. "Yes."

Tristan smoothed her dark hair back from her face, still flushed and shining, as if trying to determine the verity of her answer. "All right." It was a strange, silent agreement they made not to bid each other good night, and for all the uncertainty of the past fourteen months, there were not wrong about the time.

-

Vanora kissed Bors sweetly an hour later and left the men to their drink. She spared Tristan a glance as she passed. He had been quieter than usual since his return to the tavern, but even without his suspicious behavior, Vanora would have known. She had been watching her friend since the morning, cataloguing her restless, stumbling fingers and warmly diffused distraction.

Cariad was sitting on her knees on the cold stone floor when Vanora entered, staring up at the ceiling. She turned to greet her visitor with an uncomfortable grimace.

"Hello, my wonderful girl," Vanora whispered happily. She touched Cariad's shoulder. "Would you like to get back into bed?"

Cariad covered Vanora's hand with her own. "No," she groaned. "I think I would like to stay down here for a little while."

"All right, then." Vanora sat on the edge of the bed and busied her hands, braiding Cariad's hair back with nimble fingers. "Tell me."

Cariad clenched her teeth around a sudden, keening moan that came up from her gut. "I feel as though I have been kicked by a horse," she said through gritted teeth.

Vanora chuckled. "Good." She stood up. "I will go get the midwife. Are you quite sure you want to stay down there?" she asked, cocking her head at the younger woman.

Cariad looked up at her from the floor, eyes shining with pain. "Quite," she choked out. A tear slid down her flushed cheek.

Vanora leaned down and kissed the tear away. "I will not be gone long. I promise."

-

Tristan was angry about being kept out of his own bedroom, and embarrassed by the hidden hovering of Gawain and Galahad in the alley beyond the door. The miserly midwife had been more than insistent about her views on modesty, and the near public chastisement irked him more powerfully than anything else. He did not like to be told what to do, and did not like being forced to sit still while Cariad screamed in the other room.

His willpower failed the moment she began to cry for her life. Tristan would have thrown the midwife against the wall if he had thought it might help, but he settled for darting around her offended reaction to take Cariad's hand before she could repeat her cry.

"You are not going to die, my wonderful girl," Vanora was saying, her cool hand pressed comfortingly against Cariad's brow.

Cariad sobbed with the fear of it, tortured by the blinding flashes of pain she imagined her mother had felt moments before her death. "I do not want to die," she cried desperately. She barely felt Tristan's hand slide into hers, but she gripped it fiercely all the same. "I do not want to die."

"You will not," Tristan promised quietly, allowing Vanora to push him towards the head of the bed, where he would be out of the way.

"Silly girl," the midwife growled. Tristan shot her a scathing look, but the older woman neither saw nor felt it. She had delivered more than a hundred babies in her long life, and there was nothing that could break her concentration or distract her from the task at hand. "If you are going to be here, you might as well keep her quiet," she barked, turning away to reach for a dry cloth.

Tristan glowered at her until Vanora poked him sharply in the shoulder. He knelt, shifting his weight slightly until he could see the terror in Cariad's eyes. He laid his free hand flat along her collar bone, his thumb resting against the hollow of her throat. Her skin was hot and damp with sweat. "Cariad, Cariad," he soothed, trying to get her to look at him.

She met him with an expression of fierce determination. "I do not want to die."

"You will not," he repeated.

Cariad slammed her eyes closed then, and her whole body seemed to convulse. She turned her head, pressing their clasped hands to her forehead with a grimace of pain. "_It hurts_."

Before Tristan could respond, the midwife spoke up. "This is the last one I am doing," she announced, as if the last one were not fully in progress. She handed Vanora the clean linen and crossed her arms. "You know what to do."

Vanora's eyes widened momentarily. She scowled at the midwife, then looked up at Cariad. "You are almost done," she assured the younger woman.

One last hot surge of pain was followed by a sharp stinging sensation, and then blissful numbness. With a cry of relief and exhaustion, Cariad rolled her head away from Tristan and stared blurrily at the dark stone wall. Her breath seemed to echo all around her, and her head felt light. She closed her eyes. Her body pulsed, warm and sleepy, and she fell into welcome unconsciousness.

Tristan shook Cariad's shoulder, forgetting his company in his fear. "Cariad. Cariad." He looked quickly to the midwife, then to Vanora. "She's feinted."

"Oh, she's fine," the midwife said, bustling about in search of a clean blanket.

Vanora looked at Tristan, sympathetic but undeniably excited. "Her body will do the rest."

Tristan barely thought about the baby, about the point and product of all this pain and labor. Instead, he watched Cariad as she disappeared into slumber and the hard, weary lines of pain on her face softened into sweet relief. He closed his eyes, listening to her breathe as he had become accustomed to doing so many nights before, and opened them only when his daughter first cried out her presence into the world.

-

Cariad woke in the refreshing embrace of a clean shift and sheets, and in the company of a strange little person she had never seen before and would have known anywhere. She lay on her side, her back to the room, and laid her hand tentatively on the baby's swaddled belly. "Hello."

Tristan rose from the chair where had kept watch most of the night. He settled himself on the side of the bed where he could see both of them, still struggling with the emotion that had kept him alert all those hours – wonder. He did not consider himself a sentimental man. It was strange to smile so broadly, and a little embarrassing, but he could not help it.

"Well," Cariad said, her wit a little less sharp beneath the veil of her exhaustion, "have I done what you asked?"

Tristan leaned back against the wall and answered with a tilt of his head. "It is a girl."

Cariad's grin came but with a laugh that could have been a sob. Her eyes teared. "Hello, baby girl."

Tristan watched, fascinated, as the little person opened its eyes sleepily, its tiny mouth pursed in a sloppy bow and then yawning open, pink and perfect. "It needs a name," he said finally.

"It?" Cariad touched the tip of her index finger to the baby's nose with a small smile. "She needs a name." She thought for a moment, considering the newborn's dark hair and eyes, so familiar and real as to be a little bit startling. Existence itself could be sweet. She sighed softly, content.

"Call her after your mother," Tristan suggested after a few minutes.

Cariad frowned a little but could not take her eyes off her daughter. "Would that be wise?"

Tristan leaned down to press a kiss to Cariad's forehead. "No harm can be done now," he whispered, a promise. "Forgive yourself."

Cariad did not try to blink back her tears. "Very well." She traced the now dozing infant's chubby cheek down to the edge of the swaddling blanket, curling her finger beneath her daughter's chin. "Hail, little Lowri."

Gently, Tristan lifted Cariad's hand and raised it to his mouth in a gesture of love and thanks. "Very well, indeed."


	21. Tender

**SEMPER LIBER**

Summary: A dying man's final request sends a young woman to a new life at Badon Hill. TristanOC.

Disclaimer & Author's Note: I like to think that Malory would have his legends of King Arthur belong to the ages, but I cannot lay claim to them nor to those responsible for the 2004 film by the same name. Thank you for reading, and enjoy!

A/N#2: Sorry for the delay. Graduate school is a bitch goddess. You'd think I'd have time to whip out one of these itty bitty chapters, but you'd be wrong. Also, I've known how this thing would end all along, and that's where we're headed. In the meantime, I'm a bit tired of it, and have another story in the works that I like much better at the moment. Which says nothing about either story and everything about the nature of the author. Enjoy!

Chapter 21: Tender

As far as Tristan was concerned, Lowri was not precocious: she was a monster. At the age of six months, she was quick enough to disappear into the other room in the time it took to put on his boots. She scraped her chubby hands and knees on the floor, hid under the board, and stuck her mother's loose lilac and lavender petals into her mouth until she choked. He considered the summer season a blessing: he wouldn't have dared light a fire anywhere in the infant's presence.

Tristan did not pause in his whittling as Lowri crawled across the floor in pursuit of the paper thin wood shavings littered at his feet. She pushed herself into a sitting position and pressed one chubby fist to the pink bow of her lips. She stared at him blankly.

"What?" He stilled his knife and smirked. "What do you want?"

Lowri slapped her hands against the ground and chirped a laugh.

Smiling slightly, Tristan bent his head back to his work. A wooden horse the size of his palm was taking shape in his hands, big enough that he wouldn't have to worry about his daughter shoving it into her mouth and choking on it. He couldn't help but notice that she wasn't watching the quick movements of his hands, but his face.

"What?" he repeated.

"She's not going to answer you any time soon," Cariad chuckled, closing the door on the mild summer rainstorm outside. She hung her light cloak over a chair and leaned in the doorway of the bedroom, smiling at the sight of Tristan sitting cross-legged on the floor in front of their daughter. The weather didn't bother him – he would have enjoyed sitting outside in the warm, light rain – but Lowri couldn't go with him, so he stayed inside.

Raising his head, Tristan arched an eyebrow at Cariad. "Doesn't mean I can't ask."

"Hm." Cariad crossed the room and bent down to lay a chaste kiss on his lips, then lifted Lowri easily from the floor. The baby squeaked and wrapped her fist around a lock of her mother's hair, placing it promptly in her mouth. Cariad gently pulled her hair loose. "And how is my baby girl?"

"She's not going to answer you any time soon," Tristan said without looking up. "I am well, by the way."

"I know," Cariad said lightly. She laid Lowri on her back on the bed against which Tristan sat. She grasped his chin in her hand and turned his face up towards hers. She brushed her thumb against the curved corner of his lips. "It is good to see you happy," she said softly.

Tristan reached up and pulled her lips down onto his. He held her there even after he ended the kiss, his forehead pressed against hers, eyes closed. "You have made me happy," he said, his words a gift he was learning to give more freely.

Cariad kissed him again, then stood up. She slipped onto the bed between her daughter and the wall. Brushing her hand over the infant's sparse, dark curls, she smiled. "You have made me happy," she echoed him, and when Tristan looked up he found dark eyes shining warmly and knew her words were for him.

Cariad closed her eyes with a sigh and drew Lowri close to her, looking forward to the soft warm sleep of a summer afternoon. The baby turned her face into her mother's shoulder, her tiny fist closing instinctively around the light fabric of Cariad's dress.

Tristan tore his gaze away from the family he had never dared to imagine and concentrated on the deceptively crude horse taking shape in his hands.

-

Cariad turned and grinned brightly, her skirts twisting around her ankles. With unbridled enthusiasm, she crossed the courtyard and wrapped her free arm around Tristan's neck, pulling him close. She pressed her happy smile into the curve of his neck. "You're back!"

A smile twitched onto Tristan's lips and disappeared before his fellows could see. His horse stood weary behind him, forgotten for the moment. "I was gone?" He tipped Cariad's face up and greeted her properly with a kiss. "I did not realize." He reached for Lowri, hard, heavy hands gentling instinctively as he lifted his daughter from Cariad's arms. It was no longer strange to hold life in his hands. How many years had he dispensed death, only to be rewarded with these wide brown eyes – his – full of trust and wonder?

"You have been gone for three days," Cariad insisted.

"If you say," he said, watching Lowri carefully. He frowned. "She's different." Meeting Lowri's inquisitive gaze, Tristan repeated, "You're different."

"Ma ma ma ma ma!" Lowri exclaimed.

Cariad pursed her lips, trying in vain to conceal her joy. "And proud of it," she said brightly.

Tristan's face was a mask of stone, but beneath his mind was racing. It suddenly occurred to him that this little person had begun the slow and obstacled path between being her mother's apendage and her own individual. Overwhelmed, Tristan placed Lowri back into her mother's arms. "I need to take care of the horse."

Cariad frowned, pressing a kiss to the baby's temple. "Tristan?"

He turned away, leading the ornery grey towards the stables. Behind him, Lowri chirped, "Da!" For the first time in thirteen years, for the first time since that first night away from home, Tristan felt tears sting at the back of his eyes.

He could hear Bors laughing.

-

"Lala," Lowri said, reaching out and flexing her hands.

Galahad took the one-year-old from her mother, wrapping the edge of his cloak around her tiny body. Cariad sat beside him, leaning her elbows on the table behind them. There weren't many soldiers here tonight. Half of Arthur's knights were in a Roman village four leagues south, at the request of the Roman noble who lived there. Most of Nevius's guard was dispatched to the eastern shore to escort a caravan of merchants crossing from Gaul to replace the keep's winter stores. Galahad, Gawain, Kay, and a handful of Roman infantry and guards kept to the fortress, lazily watching the cobblestones ice over and drinking too much in the meanwhile.

Cariad brushed Lowri's brown curls off her flushed cheeks, stroking her finger there tenderly. She sighed and looked across the tavern.

Galahad rubbed Lowri's back when she curled into his warmth, pressing her face against his shirt. "What's wrong?" he asked Cariad.

"I…" she began. She stopped and sighed again, then turned to face Galahad, trying to put the object of her frustration out of her sight, if not out of her mind. "Have I done something to anger Gawain?" she asked finally.

Before he could think to control his response, Galahad's eyes widened.

Cariad latched onto his reaction immediately. "What? What have I done?"

Galahad glanced quickly across the tavern to make sure Gawain wasn't watching – he was drinking with one of the Roman guards and taking the other man's money at cards – before he met his friend's demanding gaze. "You have done nothing to upset Gawain."

Cariad frowned. "Do not lie to me, Galahad. It doesn't suit you."

Shaking his head, Galahad looked down at Lowri, who was yawning, half-asleep in his lap. "He is… jealous," he said at last. He looked up quickly to gauge her reaction.

"Of me?" Cariad asked incredulously. "He…"

"Of Tristan," Galahad interrupted her sharply.

Cariad began to laugh, but the young knight's cold gaze stopped her short. "Gawain has earned his beautiful Sarmatian wife and family a thousand times over," she said gently. "And he will survive to meet them. I am sure of it."

Shaking his head, Galahad looked away. "No."

Cariad frowned. "You cannot be so pessimistic, Galahad. Not you." She could see him losing patience with her in the tight line of his jaw and the flush rising from the collar of his shirt.

"You women are so stupid," Galahad growled.

"Pardon?" Cariad glared at him in the flickering light of the tavern, the infant spurs of anger beginning to twine with her growing confusion.

Gawain chose that moment to look up from his game, his winner's grin half-drunk and half-obnoxious. Galahad raised one hand in greeting. The blond knight rose from his table and stole a tankard from Vanora, ignoring the sting of her slap on his shoulder as he passed. His eyes darkened a little at the sight of Lowri snuggled into Galahad's cloak, but the shadow was cast for only a moment.

The moment spoke an eternity. In Gawain's reaction, Cariad could see her own brief flash of sad horror, the cold spark of realization. The air between the three of them had stopped and become stagnant. Gawain looked angrily to Galahad, and in his moment of inattention, Cariad swooped her child out of the youngest knight's lap and fled the tavern.

Gawain grabbed Galahad by the collar, hauling him roughly to his feet. "What have you told her?" he seethed, masking an all too familiar ache with anger.

Galahad refused the fight. "I didn't tell her anything."

-

Amused, Gawain watched as the young Roman soldier measured the distance between himself and the post. Behind and to the left of the young man, Tristan crossed his arms over his chest and ducked his head slightly to hide a knowing smirk. The soldier took aim. His blade flew through the air and sank deep into the wood two inches below Tristan's. The scout accepted the young man's money without a word, then pulled his own blade from the post.

"You really should give them time to learn what they are getting into before you start taking their money," Gawain said with a loose grin.

"He challenged me," Tristan muttered, rejoining Gawain and Galahad had the table. He looked sharply to the youngest of them, then cast his eyes towards the table where Lancelot sat at dice with a pair of Roman soldiers and one of the young Britons from the fort.

Galahad scowled but removed himself with controlled haste.

Gawain regarded Tristan skeptically, saying nothing but watching as the other man's gaze rose from the table and traveled directly across the tavern to where Cariad stood filling a drink for Galahad. The well-intentioned idiot motioned towards their table, and with a teasing smirk, the girl lifted two mugs and made her way through the evening crowd.

Tristan spared her a smile as she approached, trading the drink for the trio of coins he'd just taken from the Roman. Cariad grinned, placing the second drink in front of Gawain without looking at him. "What have you done?"

He shrugged, forgetting for a moment why he'd looked to her in the first place, pleased to simply be looking at her. "Nothing untoward."

"Well, then."

Gawain reached for his drink, and her smile faltered for the briefest moment when his fingers brushed hers. She snatched her hand away and, without thinking, held it in front of her as if she'd been burned. Frustrated, Cariad nearly growled. She turned away from the table.

Before she'd taken two steps, Tristan's strong fingers closed around her wrist. He said nothing but met her eye blankly, searching. He found nothing there to fuel his anger – he hadn't expected he would – so he let her go, rubbing his thumb tenderly over the curve of her wrist as he pulled away.

"What the hell are you doing, Tristan?" Gawain barked. Cariad regarded him sharply, accusing and sad, before she turned to join Galahad at Lancelot's table.

As always, Tristan chose his words carefully. "She misses you," he said, voice dark and low. He turned to Gawain, open-faced.

"I do not know what you mean," Gawain said slowly.

"You do," Tristan answered with a calm he did not feel. "You are her friend."

Gawain stood. "Tristan…"

Tristan shook his head sharply, cutting off the other man's protest. He bit out each word as if striking them from stone. "Do not punish her on my account." Without another word, he took his ale and joined the mother of his child, who slipped her arm through his with a measure of affection meant to meet his characteristic stoicism without challenging it.


	22. Sacrifice, Part II

**SEMPER LIBER**

Summary: A dying man's final request sends a young woman to a new life at Badon Hill. TristanOC.

Disclaimer & Author's Note: I like to think that Malory would have his legends of King Arthur belong to the ages, but I cannot lay claim to them nor to those responsible for the 2004 film by the same name. Thank you for reading, and enjoy!

Chapter 22: Sacrifice, Part II

What really made Tristan sick was the lack of dignity in it. There was no honor in Kay's death, and no reason for it. He died for no man, woman, or child. He died without cause, in a public place, where everyone who witnessed him laughed in the moments between his fall and the realization that his soul had fled before his body even hit the ground. Whatever pain there was in it came not from sword or arrowhead, and its brevity was not mercy but mockery.

Dagonet and Bors together had to carry him from the tavern, still warm and smelling of the ale that no doubt contributed to his untimely death. He had stood from the bench, demanding a refill of one of the barmaids, and then he had clutched uselessly his chest and fallen across the table with a crash. Tristan trailed behind as they carried Kay up the stairs to their quarters; it was too late to do anything with the body now but hide it away respectfully until the sun rose.

Arthur looked ill at the news. For over a year and a half they had been lucky, if luck had anything to do with it. Tristan felt his disgust expand to cast a shadow on his commander: Arthur was stupid if he thought that, six months from now, he would bid farewell to the seven of them. Tristan stared down at his boots, unseeing. Six months, and Kay could have died without disgrace. None of them would ever be heroes, but even slaves could die with honor.

-

"Ma. Hungry, ma!"

Cariad woke to Tristan's sharp eyes staring back at her from under a mop of brown curls. The ringlets did not belong to her mother, her father, or her grandfather. Cariad liked to imagine, with some sadness, that her own mother had put her stamp on the little girl. She reached out and tousled her daughter's hair, then pulled the little girl up onto the bed beside her.

Lowri laughed, struggling in her mother's embrace. "Ma!" she squealed.

"What?" Cariad laughed.

"Where da?"

Cariad sat up quickly. The sun was shining soft and warm out the window, veiled with the light mist of new morning. Her heart beat wildly: had she slept so soundly as to miss him? "I do not know, little girl." She looked down at Lowri and forced a smile. "Shall we eat and then go find him?"

Lowri nodded firmly, her curls falling into her eyes. "Hungry."

"Right, hungry," Cariad repeated, swinging her legs over the side of the bed. She lifted Lowri and brought her into the front room which, besides serving as a kitchen, was also currently Lowri's bedroom. The two-year-old has such affection for the cubby beneath the board that Cariad had finally moved her low cot there, buried it in blankets, and sighed with relief that she could put her daughter to sleep at night without a temper tantrum.

As Lowri settled herself in her cubby, munching happily on the wooden horse she'd hidden between the blankets, Cariad sliced a loaf of bread and smeared each piece with some of Vanora's plum preserves. "We will sit at the table?" Cariad asked, lean down to peer beneath the board.

"No!" Lowri shouted joyfully.

Sighing, Cariad slid the slices of bread onto a plate and sat cross-legged on the floor. "Right," she said, not unhappily. "No."

"No!" Lowri repeated.

Cariad traded her daughter a slice of bread for the well-loved horse. "Your favorite," she said of the spread.

"No!" Lowri shoved half the bread into her mouth and giggled madly when Cariad nearly dropped the plate on the floor in her haste to keep her daughter from choking.

"Come on, kitten," Cariad grumbled. "Just eat like a person, eh? Not a horse?"

Lowri chewed her breakfast, clearly not listening. Her eyes were focused somewhere the left of the hearth, watching the dust motes dance from the window down to some sunlight spot on the wall.

"Very well." Cariad ate slowly, watching Lowri's fascination with the world play out openly on her face. Lost in the sight of her daughter and the sweet comforting fullness that came with Vanora's preserves, she did not heard Tristan's approach, and startled when the door swung open.

Lowri was the first to speak: "Da!" She crawled out from beneath the board and lifted her hands towards him.

Tristan looked at her briefly, then ignored her. He did not offer his hand to Cariad as she rose carefully from the floor, the remains of breakfast balanced on the plate in her hand. She set it on the board, waiting for him to speak.

"Da!" Lowri repeated, clenching and unclenching her fists in a desperate plea for Tristan's attention.

Tristan forgot why he had come in the first place. He had nothing to say to either of them, nothing they could understand. Perhaps he had come out of guilt, returning to apologize for not returning the night before. Still, there was nothing to say.

"Tristan?"

Raising his eyes to Cariad's pleading ones, Tristan realized that he did not want anything to do with either one of them. Not now. They were a part of him that was sorely mismatched from the disgust he could not seem to shake, and they were no solace for the scathing glares of his brothers when he refused to see to Kay's burial. "I am sorry," he said, and he left.

-

"Hey, lad." Gawain stroked the chestnut's face gently. "Your master's gone on. But you know that already, eh?" The horse leaned into Gawain's touch with a sigh. The man matched the animal's morose mood. Nevius would requisition the horse as soon as he heard the news, and Arthur would have to acquiesce. A magnificent animal like this one would not tolerate being used as a pack horse, and none of them would want to see it.

Gawain turned at the soft, familiar sound of approaching footsteps. He nodded his greeting, then turned back to the horse with an air of dismissal that neither one of them believed.

"Have you seen Tristan?" Cariad asked quietly, as if afraid that she might break the tight tension between them and spill everything that hadn't been said – and that shouldn't be said – across the floor like the ocean from a cup.

Without taking his eyes off the horse, Gawain shook his head. In his peripheral vision, he could see Cariad's disappointment. She turned to leave, and he spoke. "I am sorry."

Cariad spun around. "That is twice today that has been said to me and I do not know the reason for it. What has happened?"

"My apology has nothing to do with…" Gawain paused. She did not know. She would soon enough, but he hated to be the one to tell her. He stroked the horse's nose. "Kay is dead," he said softly.

Cariad gasped. "How?"

"_The gods_," Gawain answered, smirking grimly. "Who else is sorry?"

Cariad frowned. "Tristan."

"Ah," Gawain said knowingly. "He is sorry that he did not go to you last night." He crossed his arms over his chest, meeting her eye. "I have not seen Tristan since he left us this morning."

It seemed like ages before she spoke, as it always does when both parties know the words that need to be said and the danger in saying them. "This needs to stop, Gawain."

He did not play with her. "I know. That is why I am sorry."

"You cannot feel what you think you do," Cariad said boldly. She shook her head. "It is ridiculous."

Gawain tried to hide his anger, preferring that she see him emasculated than mindless. "I do and I have from the very first moment I heard you speak."

"You are as bad as he was!" Cariad said vehemently, tears welling up in her eyes. "I am not a token to remember your sorry life by! I am not your mother or your sister or the girl you left behind! I have never even seen the place you long for!"

The horse startled at the emotion in her voice, but Gawain stood stock still not ten feet from her. "I am sorry."

Cariad threw her hands up in the air. "Is that all you can say?"

"What do you want me to say?" he said, letting a little bit of hurt creep into his voice. "That I love you dearly? That I hate my brother for acting first? That I…"

"Stop!" she shouted. "Just stop!"

Gawain's shoulders fell. "I am not sorry that I love you. I am sorry that you found out, and that our friendship has suffered for it."

Cariad looked up then, frustrated tears slipping down her cheeks. "We cannot do this," she said. "I miss your friendship. I… My daughter barely knows you, who has always been closest to me beside her father. It is ridiculous. I do not want…" She swiped angrily at her tears.

Gawain felt a measure of relief at her words. She had taken him to task. Neither of them deserved the ache that came with these crossed lines. Though he knew he had no hope, and did not entertain any, he could read the distress in her dark eyes clearly: she could have chosen him.

"I barely know what I ask of you," she whispered.

Gawain closed the distance between them slowly. He took her face gently in his hands and kissed her forehead. "I do." He wiped a tear from her cheek and stepped away. "If I see Tristan, I will let him know you are looking for him."

-

Tristan avoided Vanora's home whenever possible, which was less and less frequently now that Cariad and Lowri had become a part of his life. There were too many children, and children were nothing but obnoxious puppies that one could not actually kick. It was a relief to him to find Lowri awake and attentive, to hear her call out for him, so that he would not have to engage any of the others.

"Da!" Lowri threw her chubby arms around his neck as he lifted her from the floor.

Vanora emerged from the kitchen, looking haggard at eight months pregnant with the eleventh. "Oh, it's you. Idiot man." She shook her head and disappeared back into the kitchen.

Tristan followed and did not like the sight before him. Cariad met his eye easily, even smiled, but it was clear that she had been crying. "What is wrong?" he asked, holding Lowri close to him as if her mother's answer might take something vital away.

Cariad shook her head. "Nothing. I promise. I have only just heard of Kay," she said. It was true, but the fact of Kay's death had nothing to do with her sad eyes, and Tristan seemed to know it. "Where have you been?"

"Nowhere. I promise," he answered plainly.

Cariad glared at him sharply, surprised to see a flicker of humor in his eye. She bit her lip. "You are a strange man."

"For gods' sakes, girl," Vanora exclaimed. "Are you only just now figuring this out?" She pushed herself up heavily from the table and shooed Tristan with her hands. "Get out, now, and take the baby with you, eh?" She tapped Cariad on the back of the head. "You, too, girl. There are enough silly gits in this house as it is, without you two bringing your nonsense around."


	23. Legacy

**SEMPER LIBER**

Summary: A dying man's final request sends a young woman to a new life at Badon Hill. TristanOC.

Disclaimer & Author's Note: I like to think that Malory would have his legends of King Arthur belong to the ages, but I cannot lay claim to them nor to those responsible for the 2004 film by the same name. Thank you for reading, and enjoy!

A/N#2: This is the final chapter, though there will be an epilogue. I hope that it is not quite as terrible as I think it is. Thanks for reading. Also, we are now officially in movie territory.

Chapter 23: Legacy

"I am not putting my daughter on that horse."

Gawain circled the animal, laughing at the sight of his friend. Cariad stood at the edge of the indoor arena, holding Lowri tight against her hip as if she thought he might leap off the horse and steal the toddler away. "I won't let anything happen to her," he promised.

Cariad shook her head, suppressing a smile. "Absolutely not."

Urging the horse closer he teased, "You know you'll give in eventually. You may as well do it now."

Lowri clapped her hands. "Horsey."

Cariad stepped forward, rolling her eyes. "One scratch and I castrate you," she threatened.

"Give it over," Gawain said, holding out his hands.

"It? It?" Cariad scowled at him. "I hate you."

"I know. Come on now." He received Lowri and set her easily in the saddle in front of him.

Cariad reached up, folding her daughter's tiny hands over the pommel of the saddle. "Hold on, kitten," she instructed.

Lowri shook her head vigorously. "No!"

Gawain smirked. "No." He steadied the toddler with one hand and took up the horse's reins with the other. He urged the horse into a walk, chuckling when Cariad began to walk along side them. "You don't trust me?"

"I don't trust him," Cariad said, laying her hand on the horse's shoulder.

"Horsey!" Lowri shouted, slapping her hands on the pommel of the saddle.

"Lowri, hold on," Cariad said quickly, reaching up to take her daughter's hands.

Gawain grabbed Cariad's wrist. "She's fine," he promised gently. "I won't let anything happen to her."

Cariad lowered her hands and smiled weakly. She stepped back from the horse. "I know." She forced herself to remain calm and stand still while Gawain took Lowri around the arena at an achingly slow pace. It seemed somehow wrong to enjoy this moment, but she took the guilt with the happiness. When Lowri sought her out – "Ma! Horsey!" – she smiled.

-

Tristan took a deep breath, trying to temper his anger. He had given Rome everything, and now Rome wanted more. The Woads were getting bolder, the Saxons were crossing the island from the east, and one fifteen-year-old boy would be their bane. He felt death hovering at the edge of his consciousness. More blood would be spilt before they were granted freedom – Rome's freedom – and his heart ached because of it. He knew he would die on a battlefield, and welcomed that death, but it would be too soon for her. She would not understand, and even now he was not sure he was prepared to leave her.

He opened the door quietly, careful not to wake Lowri where she slept under the board. He bent down to lay a gentle hand on her forehead. She slept soundly, her hand fisted against her mouth. "_Good night, little Lowri_," he whispered.

"Tristan?"

He glanced up sharply. Was he so preoccupied that she had appeared in the doorway without him having heard a single footstep? He closed his eyes, feeling that irrepressible anger well up inside of him. After a few moments, he stood, grabbed Cariad's wrist, and pushed her backwards into the bedroom.

"Tristan, what's wrong?" she asked, her voice rising in alarm.

He dropped her hand and closed the door silently behind them. "Quiet," he whispered darkly. "Don't wake the baby."

"All right," she answered, voice soft with confusion. Tristan could barely look at her. She knew as well as he that this should be a happy night, that there was no reason for him to be here and not celebrating with his brothers. There should have been no reason for the dark cloud behind his eyes. "Please, tell me."

Tristan stepped forward again, dragging her body up against his. She grimaced and murmured his name. He kissed her fiercely, pushing her backwards until she stumbled to the bed. "Tristan, please," she whimpered. "Tell me what's wrong."

Sighing, Tristan pulled back. She looked almost afraid of him. No, not of him. Just afraid. "We are to go out once more before we get our papers," he said, sitting on the bed beside her.

"No," Cariad protested. "No. You have already given them everything."

"Don't," Tristan said sharply. He pulled her close again, threading his hands in her hair. "Just don't."

Cariad shook her head as much as his grip would allow. "I will not let you say goodbye to me," she whispered, eyes filling with tears. Despite her words, she met his kiss, wrapping her arms around him tightly. She let him lay her down and make love to her with a gentle desperation that broke her heart.

After, Tristan smoothed her hair back from her face and held her close against him, as if clinging to life. She turned her face away from his and cried.

"I am sorry, Cariad," he whispered.

"It is not your fault." She took a ragged breath and stared at the closed door. She knew her words would have no impact on his behavior, but they screamed in her head until she let them go. "Please be careful. For me. For Lowri. If you love us, you'll be careful."

Tristan laid a kiss behind her ear. "_I love you both_."

-

Eyes still rimmed red and swollen from crying, Cariad lifted Lucan into the carriage with Vanora's eleven and her own daughter. Lucan's sorry face was a near match for her own. She pressed a comforting hand to the young boy's cheek. "It will be all right," she promised with a weak smile. He nodded, stoically holding back tears.

In the carriage, Lowri screamed her discomfort. The older children were miserable with the knowledge of what was happening, and the younger ones were confused and scared. Vanora's second held Lowri close to her chest as the toddler's cries set off her six-month-old brother, who was cradled in her older sister's arms. Lucan sat carefully beside the second, peering down at Lowri. "Sh. Sh, baby."

Cariad closed her eyes in pain, opening them only when she felt Vanora's hand grasp her own. The other woman's grip with bruisingly tight. She offered Cariad a sad smile. "We are going home," she said softly.

"We are home," Cariad answered. She looked to Vanora. Tears filled her voice, her words nearly breaking on a sob. "They will not leave him."

"Don't," Vanora commanded. Tears ran down her cheeks, and she wiped them away furiously.

Cariad took a deep breath and nodded at her friend. She had nothing more to say, nothing that could rise through the tightness in her throat and the pounding headache that had taken up behind her eyes. She squeezed Vanora's hand and climbed into the carriage, taking Lowri in her lap like a worry doll. Vanora followed, glaring at the diminished rank of the knights as if she could force them to reject the fate that the gods had chosen for them.

-

The horses startled at the rising drum beats, screaming their protest into the early morning air. They had not known until this moment what had to be done, but their decision was swifter: they had been through this before. They had given their lives once for Rome, died with honor, and come again to guide those who followed them. The horses shamed them, and each man decided before consulting with the others what had to be done.

Tristan leapt off his horse and left the loyal beast standing beside the flowing stream of the Roman guard. Together with Galahad, the best archer besides himself, he checked the strings of the bows on the armory cart, chose the straightest arrows, and donned his armor. He checked each fletch, each buckle and tie, each blade. He scrubbed an imaginary spot of blood of his dao with his thumb.

"Tristan."

He turned and regarded Gawain silently. The other man jerked his head towards the carriage that transported Vanora, Cariad, and the thirteen children. Bors stood there already, taking Vanora's tear-soaked verbal lashing. With a sigh, Tristan slung his bow onto his back and followed his friend's silent command.

Tristan wrapped his hand around Cariad's where it gripped the wooden bar of the carriage. Her hand was cold and white with the effort of it. "Where's the baby?" he asked.

Cariad turned her head, reaching her free hand behind her. "Lowri, kitten." She drew the little girl forward and stared at Tristan, harsh and sad.

Tristan bent his head to kiss his daughter. Lowri sniffled and grinned. "No!"

A sob escaped Cariad's lips as she pulled her daughter back against her chest. Tristan opened his mouth to speak, but she cut him off. "I know. I… know."

"Gawain will take care of you," he said, pinning her with his gaze.

Cariad shook her head, tears slipping down her cheeks. "No."

Tristan nodded gently. "Yes." He took her hand and bent his head to kiss her palm; the thin scar there seemed to pulse against his lips. He lifted his head and squeezed her hand in parting. He knew what might come, but made no declaration of love, said no goodbye. He knew her: she would take comfort in knowing that he had to come back, to finish what hadn't been finished. She would think him confident in his return.

Ignoring the soft crying of a carriage full of abandoned children and their mothers, Tristan returned to Gawain with quick, determined footsteps. He took his brother's arm and engaged him. "You will take care of her," he ordered.

Gawain's eyes widened. "No."

"If I die," Tristan said slowly. "You will take care of her."

"I will do no such thing," Gawain said angrily. "You will not die."

"Do not make a fool of yourself, or of me," Tristan said through gritted teeth. "Promise that you will take care of her."

Gawain looked over his shoulder to what had become of the sharp witted girl and her fiery friend. They were both pale with worry, and Vanora turned away. "No," he barked. "She will never forgive you."

"She will," Tristan said quietly. "She loves me. She will love you. And you will take care of her."

Gawain regarded his friend, noting the unusual pleading expression in the other man's eye. "We all do what needs to be done," he said, glancing up at Arthur's solitary form standing atop Badon Hill. "We have always protected each other. We have always taken care of one another." He looked to Tristan.

Tristan nodded and grasped his fellow's wrist firmly. Gawain returned the gesture.

She would forgive him. She would have no choice.

-

Biting her lip, Cariad drew her knees up to her chest and wrapped her arms around them. She leaned back against the wall, gazing dry-eyed over the dimly lit room. The littlest ones, including Lowri, were fast asleep near the fireplace, flanked by the second and the third, a boy of twelve. Vanora and Bors sat up together at the table in the kitchen, watching quietly over them through the open door.

Cariad bent her head to her knees and let the tears fall silently. She had raised her hand in anger when Gawain had given her the news, and her wrist still ached from his bruising grip. She had turned her back on Lowri and her piercing eyes. Vanora had held her close, stroking her hair until her shoulders stopped shaking, but she had not cried. Until now.

She heard a rustling to her left and instantly cursed the source of the sound. She wanted no one's comfort, and she wanted to hate anyone who tried. But the shuffling footsteps grew louder. A small, warm hand touched hers where it rested on her knee. Cariad raised her head reluctantly.

Lucan's sad blue eyes gazed back at her.

Furrowing her brow, Cariad fought flood of tears that threatened to burst forth at the little boy's expression. He looked as lost as she felt, but he actually was. She turned her hand over, twining Lucan's fingers with her own.

The boy startled at the sound of the door opening, then cowered next to Cariad. She ran her hand over his back and pulled him close. "It's all right," she said, her voice thin and weary. She raised her eyes to the newcomers, glaring at Gawain and Galahad like a suspicious guard dog. The heartbreak written across Galahad's face broke her resolve, and she sobbed freely.

Lucan patted her hand. "Sh."

Gawain stepped carefully over the sleeping children. He imagined she felt in her heart the painful ache that ran through his body. He had carried the man she cried for from the spot where he had fallen to place he lay now, waiting for morning. She refused to see him, and Gawain was silently relieved. "Come on, little one," he said gently, taking her elbow. She thrust his hand away. "Hey," he said sternly, taking her arm again.

Cariad glanced up at him then like a child, pleading silently for guidance.

"Come on," Gawain repeated. He pulled her to her feet. She lost Lucan's hand in the process. "Get your little girl," he instructed, leading her across the room. Cariad paused, staring at the floor. Gawain tugged on her hand. "Now, Cariad."

Cariad blinked, watching the firelight flicker over Lowri's face. The little ones had no idea what was happening around them. Within a year, her daughter would not remember her father. She would grow up without a single memory of him. Her face crumpled.

"Cariad."

Shaking herself mentally, she lifted Lowri from the blanket between Vanora's ninth and tenth. The toddler didn't even wake. Gawain pressed his hand to the small of her back, guiding her towards the door. She paused again at a light tug on her skirt. Lucan stood behind her; he let loose her skirt the moment she turned, as if ashamed to have asked.

"Come on," she said softly. Lowri yawned in her arms and snuggled closer. Lucan followed them back to the two-room home, sticking close to Cariad's side.

Gawain watched Cariad carefully as he gathered a pile of spare blankets and spread them on the floor in the corner where he had slept three years ago, watching over her then when Tristan couldn't. Then, it had been by his own selfish choice. Now, Lucan would find rest here, and be watched over.

Cariad laid her daughter under the board carefully. He had been sure she would take Lowri to bed with her, to have her close, as she used in the days and months after the little one was born, and on those occasions when Tristan was not there to keep her company.

Cariad stood slowly and offered Gawain a small smile of thanks. She laid a blanket over Lucan, smoothing the boy's hair from his forehead. Sighing, she looked back up at Gawain and considered the shadows on his face. Twice in her life she had loved a man unconditionally, and each of them laid a condition on her life on the occasion of his death. She had not been angry at her father. She hated Tristan in the way that only a woman devastatingly in love can. But she could not be angry at Gawain.

"Gawain," she said softly, her voice breaking.

He nodded towards the privacy of the bedroom. He closed the door on Lowri's deep, even breaths and Lucan's drooping eyelids.

"Are you all right with Lucan here?" he asked.

Cariad wrapped her arms around herself, her back to the window. "Yes." She looked away quickly, then back. "Gawain…"

Gawain met her eye and spoke carefully. "He made me promise…"

"Of course he did," she said bitterly.

Tears came to her eyes again and she reached for him. Gawain took her into his arms hesitantly. She cried silently into his shoulder until she had nothing left. He lost track of the time, running his hands over her hair and down her back, trying to soothe away the pain that Tristan had left as his legacy. Was there really any honor in this?

Cariad stood back finally, sniffling and wiping carefully at her eyes. "There is no need for you to stay," she said shakily.

Gawain smiled sadly, stroking her cheek with his thumb. "Good night."

Cariad nodded shortly and crossed her arms over her chest as he turned to leave. "Gawain," she said as he reached the door. He turned his head. "Thank you," she breathed.

"_You're welcome._"


End file.
